By Pickle

~ Chapter 21 ~

I finish up and they unchain me, and escort me outside and direct me around behind the torture barn and up the hill behind it a few hundred yards to another barn.  I’m later to learn that this one does actually serve as an animal barn, and this truly is a working farm.

I hadn’t really checked out the clothes I donned in the dark yet.  I guess I must have been too ravenous to care what I was wearing, but I now saw I was wearing a pair of really well-fitting and very faded jeans, and a dark green shirt, like I’d seen on “Coffee” … the shirttails were cut deeper than most of my own shirts, and they curved like the dress shirts I remember seeing my old man wearing.  I kinda liked the shape of those shirttails.  Maybe they reminded me of him or something.  Kind of a nice memory, since he passed away when I was in my early teens.

My two chaperones lead me beyond the barn but near one end where we pass a large manure pile.  I’m halted when we reach a small, square pit.  There’s a couple tall poles that I eyeball to be at least twenty feet high, and a thick crossbeam between them.  I see a large winch and a chain extending down from it over the pit, but the end with the hook has been pulled over to one of the poles and hooked there, waiting … I can only assume … for me.  The pit is about six feet square and since it’s filled with a gross-looking mixture of non-identifiable gunk that smells like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. I gag from the stench and my “companions” both laugh.

I actually think of trying to make a break for it, but Fulton must’ve read my mind and he quickly grabs me and puts me into a full nelson, Gunnerson straps thickly padded suspension cuffs onto my wrists.  The kind with a bar to hang onto.  These were wider from wrist up toward my elbow than any I’d ever seen though, and had four straps around the wrist and forearm.  I figured they were designed to allow them to hang a guy for a LONG time, and wondered what I was in for.  I figured this was really going to test my endurance for hanging.  They get snugged up well enough that I can tell they’re not going to slip.

I’m then roughly shoved over to the pole with the chain and hook, and I get a better look at it.  It’s more of a large clasp than a hook, and where it’s hooked onto the pole there’s an electrical box of some sort.  Fulton unhooks the clasp and pokes a button on the box.  The chain lowers till he pokes the button again.  He’s now got about six feet of chain pulled over to the side of the pit.

“Nice, inviting-looking goo, huh cocksucker?”  This was directed at me, of course.  “This is just one of our dunking pits, Dill.  This one will be about chin-deep on you, I’d say boy.”  He smirks at me with some detectable sadism in his eyes.  “Or maybe … a little deeper.  Yer sloppy now, but you’re about to get a lot sloppier Timbo!”

Gunnerson then takes over the explanation and tells me that it’s full of a nice mixture of mud, peat, cow, sheep and horse dung, compostable food, dirty hay, grass clippings, animal piss (for the nitrogen to make it all heat up and “work”), and he mentions that they all piss in it too if they’re in the barn or near it, and when you recruits are working in there, it’s where we insist you piss too.

I squirm and try to break away from him and he wrestles me to the ground and puts me in a school boy pin, sitting on my lower chest looking down at me while pinning my arms under his knees.  Fulton then attaches a spreader bar between my ankles and pulls on it hard to test it to make sure it’s secure.  He then comes around to my head and Gunnerson releases first one arm and Fulton locks the large D-ring of one suspension cuff onto the clasp of the chain, and then repeats the action with the other.  I know there’s no escaping the gross fate that’s in my very near future.

Gunnerson gets up, and the two of them muscle me to my feet by grabbing me under the arm pits.  I look down and see the new heavy, combat boots on my spread-out feet.  Fulton says, “Do you want the pleasure, Sir?” and Gunnerson steps over to the electrical box on the post.  He pokes a button and the chain starts to be pulled back up through the winch, and I’m forced to stumble as best I can toward the pole.  Gunnerson pushes the button again once I’m standing beside him.

“So Pickle, you’ve figured this out by now boy.  You know what’s gonna happen but you don’t know the details.”  I realize Fulton has been doing something behind him as he’s speaking to me, and hear a couple “clanks”.  Gunnerson continues, “The Boss really likes this look on you Dill, but like Turk said last night, he thinks you might just be a little too “uppity” for your own good.  He feels that since you saw a bunch of other guys sportin’ this look at the gym, that if you were a “one of the boys” kinda guy, that you likely would have dressed down like this at least a few times without a little extra encouragement from us.  He wants you to understand that you’re not too good to dress down permanently, Timbo.  So he suggested that you might need us to really slop you up for a while.  Hence, your present situation, son.”  With this he looks me up and down and gives me a playful jab in the navel.  “You’re a sloppy fella now Dill, but The Boss wants you to learn that you’re not too good for us to make you a Helluva lot sloppier, boy!”

“I suppose you wanna know the details of what’s about to happen to ya, huh Pick?  Well, first you’re going to hang 20 feet up for fifteen minutes …  you’re gonna realize you’re just a sloppy fella, just like all your new buddies from the gym, hanging nice and high up there, swingin’ in the breeze.  You’re gonna have a real nice view up there too, Dill.  You’ own weight’ll be stretchin’ ya out.  Kinda like when we scarecrow ya, but here you just hang … no way for your legs to help you out up there.  That wind is going to hit you up there too … your shirttails’ll be flapping around in that breeze for sure.  By the way Timbo, you like the shirt we gave ya?  The Boss thought considering your name that it was about time we put ya in a Dill pickle coloured shirt.”  Both men laugh at this while I consider the picture Gunnerson is painting.  “In that first fifteen minutes we want you to be thinking about the fact that you’re a sloppy guy now and there’s nothin’ you can do about it, Pick.  Thing is, shortly after this first fifteen minutes, you’re gonna get a LOT sloppier, Dill!”  Again the men laugh … I gulp!  The stench coming off the pit is unbelievably bad!

“I’d savour that first trip up to the top there buddy, cuz once the time’s up we let you down and add twenty-five pounds to ya.”  Gunnerson points out the weight plates that Fulton has plunked down.  “Then up ya go for five minutes, and then we set the timer on this thing.  It’ll automatically lower you into the pit after that first five minutes of hanging, and leave you in there for five.  Then it’ll pull you back up to the top to “drip dry” for another five.  Then back down you go, into the pit for five.  Then it’ll pull you out just above the pit and let ya hang long enough for one of us to add another couple twelve point five pound plates to ya.  Then up you go for another five minutes.  Then ya get dunked for another five, hang for the lovely view for five, dunked again, then lifted out for another twenty-five pounds added to ya, and on up for the view again for five.  Well Dill … I think you get the picture.  We told ya that a guy can hang for 90 minutes before there’s any permanent nerve damage but this is gonna go on a little longer than that.  You get a break most every five minutes when it lowers you into the pit.  You’ll be on your feet and your weight will be off your arms, so we figure you can handle two and a half hours of this, no sweat.  The Boss had the boys do this to me a few weeks ago and I gotta tell ya Tim, with your shirt clingin’ to ya and all covered in this shit, you’re gonna KNOW you’re a sloppy guy.  The first time you go into the pit it fuckin’ sucks.  It’s hot from the nitrogen causing some composting action.  It fuckin’ stinks far worse than you can smell from here beside it.  Since you already gagged from it I think you’ll likely barf once you’re in it Dill.  Then when it pulls up way up there to hang for the five minutes, it’s almost worse.  Coated in this gunk, you smell how badly you stink, and with your clothes sticking to ya, and this gunk dripping off of ya, you’re gonna feel fuckin’ sloppy, boy!  Believe me!  When you’re up there covered in this shit and hanging there on full view, you’re going to start to realize things can get a lot worse than having to sport our “country boy casual” look in public, my dude.  By the way, the next time you get this little punishment, you get 150 pounds added to ya.  Third time, you get 200 pounds.  I think you’re going to know you’re getting stretched out real nice with just the hundred on ya, Timbo.  While you’re topside with the hundred on ya, think about what it’s going to be like next time around. I agree with The Boss, I think this is gonna be good for ya, PIckle!  Yeah, it’s gonna do you some good, dude!”

He gives my gut three, good, hard open-handed slaps and then pushes the button to raise me up to begin my newest fate.  The chain pulls me up and over to the edge of the pit, and I fight to keep my balance and to avoid falling into the awful gunk.  I allow the winch to stretch my arms up as far as I can stretch so that I’ll hopefully swing over and above the pit rather than drop into it but as I’m pulled more I lose the battle and I swing off the ground beside it and my feet and legs get submerged to a little above the ankles before the winch pulls me out and upward.

 

~ Chapter 22 ~

Once I’m hanging at the top of the poles I find I do have an amazing view of the property and road below.  Because the pit is even further uphill than the scarecrow post, and the land drops away fast below the pit, I feel like I’m hanging REALLY high up.  I can see beyond what I’ve come to think of as the “Torture Barn”, over to where I can see some other poor guy who is scarecrowed on the hill to the left of the barn.  I can also see where I’d spent time being tortured on the post with “Coffee” and Burton.  Since I can also see the road, I figure I can be seen as well, but from this distance no one would realize there’s a fella hanging up here like a bell that’s about to be rung, and since being tortured right by the road yesterday didn’t draw and help from cops, I knew that nobody would come to my rescue today either.

Gunnerson was right about the wind up here.  It was really gusty and I could feel my shirttails blowing around and the body of my shirt flutter a bit as the wind took it.  I could imagine how I looked hanging there, a sloppy country boy, hanging by his wrists, legs wide-spread by a metal bar.  Dangling and being blown around a little bit by the wind.  Part of me wished I could actually see myself as I hung there helplessly.  I realized I liked that I was dressed like this and on display, with not a fuckin’ thing I could do about it.  I knew that even though I was barely visible from the road that for sure there was a camera or two focused on me to show me off to the internet audience, and I was starting to really enjoy that I was being turned into one of those sleeveless hotdogs I saw at the gym for the past four months or so.  Little did I know back then that they were being coerced into sporting this look.  I realized that in about a week I’d gone from being a guy who was shy of being seen dressed down like this in public, (or maybe a little too arrogant for it) to being kind of proud to be one of the “country boys” who had to sport this look 24/7.

It was beginning to register on me that I not only liked this look on myself around home doing yard work and stuff, but I now was beginning to crave Gunnerson and his buds showing me off like this.  It hit me that being displayed lookin’ all “country boy casual-like was making my dick twitch for some reason.  I guess I figured since I thought it made the other guys look kinda rough and roguish, that I likely looked like a bit of a hotdog-cowboy too.  So for a few minutes I actually enjoyed hanging there and recognizing that these guys had already succeeded in loosening me up and turning me into a sloppier fella, and that maybe I was actually lucky these macho guys had decided I was worth working on to toughen up.  I knew that even though I thought I hated it, that the whole experience was becoming a lot more agreeable to me, and that I was becoming more compliant to whatever it was they had in store for me.  As I wondered what other tortures would be coming my way, I came out of my delirium and realized I was about to fuckin’ hate what was going to happen in my immediate future though.

While the first few minutes ticked by, I felt my body stretch itself out just from gravity, and how the pressure built on my wrists as the suspension cuffs supported and tightened around them, but it wasn’t unbearable.  I wondered how much worse it would get as they added the weights to my legs though.  The more my torso stretched out, the more I could imagine how I looked hanging there in my sleeveless, “pickle green” shirt, with the shirttails waving in the wind.  The more I got stretched out, the more I was enjoying being a sloppy country boy.  I started to get off on the knowledge of the fact that there were likely a lot of people watching me online who really liked the way I looked hanging here, liked seeing this particular sloppy country boy in trouble, seeing his torso stretching out, and waiting with anticipation for this Tim Dill guy to become a MUCH sloppier fella very soon.

After all this had gone through my mind I had a few more minutes to just hang there and enjoy being a sloppy guy and realize that I looked good like this.  Good enough that likely a number of people online were getting off on both me, and my situation.  It hit me that I was enjoying being on display like this … being their “entertainment.”  I intentionally squirmed a little cuz I thought my audience would enjoy seeing me struggle some for them.

Then the winch began to lower me, and I dreaded the fact that I was unavoidably about to be stretched out with an added fifty pounds and then “slopped up” in that awful mixture of muck every inch of the twenty foot trip down to the pit below.  The winch lowered me very slowly.  Slowly enough that I had time to play through in my head the scene I’d seen with the guy getting dunked on the plank, and thinking “that poor guy!” and that there was no way it could ever happen to me.  Even though I thought it was gross and felt for the guy, there was a part of me that kind of got a kick out of seeing him go through it.

I hadn’t seen anyone go through what I was about to have to endure though, but I still was thinking “no fucking way this can actually be happening to me!” … but it was, and I knew there were people out there watching who were thinking “that poor guy!” but also looking forward to watching me suffer through the lesson “The Boss” wanted me to learn.  The lesson that I’m not too good, too cultured, to dress down like a sloppy redneck, and I’m not above being treated like any of the other guys who have been recruited into this crazy camp.  I was about to learn that Timbo Dill isn’t too well-educated, too cultured, or too “good” to get himself lowered into a pit of horrific, putrid gunk and left there to stew in it for a few minutes before being pulled out and displayed hanging and completely mucked-up with it dripping off him before being dunked again.

The winch stopped with my feet about a foot above the pit.  Fulton and Gunnerson had both come back to add the weight plates.  Fulton did the work and Gunnerson stood back and eyeballed me.  I immediately felt the extra stretch.  This wasn’t going to be easy.  The winch then takes me back up to the top and psychologically that stretch feels even worse being up that high.  The guys watch me for a few minutes but leave before the winch starts to lower me for my first dunking.

Part of the beauty, and the genius of the way these guys have our punishments and penalties set up, is that you feel like you’re alone, but you know they’re keeping an eye on you online for your safety, as well as for their enjoyment.  You also know that you’re being watched by an unknown number of eyes from clients of the website, but you still feel very alone, but “on display” at the same time.  It’s an odd feeling and one that’s difficult to articulate.  All I know is that I’m starting to enjoy it.  I’m starting to enjoy being “that poor guy!” … “that poor sloppy guy!”

I cringe as my legs enter the goo.  Then I’m in it to my waist.  Then my chest.  “Oh fuck!  How deep is this?”  My feet hit bottom as it reaches my chin.  By tilting my head back I avoid the … well … “unappealing” gunk is an understatement, going into my mouth.  The stuff is hotter than I expected.  I knew that compost piles could heat up enough to act as an oven, but I wasn’t expecting this sloppy concoction to be this warm.  It was wet, and warm and squishy and disgusting!  I start to gag from the smell, as well as the thought of what “I’m soaking in” as Madge, of Palmolive fame would say.  I retch for about a minute before I finally barf, just as Gunnerson had predicted.  Now I’ve added to my misery by adding my own vomit to this disgusting, horrible mixture.

On the trip back up to the top of the poles, I do indeed feel sloppy.  Sloppier than I’d ever felt in my life.  My clothes were clinging to me and the goop was dripping off me, and I was soaked to the hide in piss, and shit and whatever else was in that horrible pit.  It was totally disgusting and this was only the beginning.  I was indeed being taught a lesson.  I immediately realize I’m just a toy for The Boss and for these guys who enjoy torturing, and toughening-up their recruits.  I was no longer Tim Dill, the well-educated professional young man.  I was now “Bo” Dill, sloppy country boy recruit, one of several, just a pawn in a game of chess being played by God-only-knows-who.

 

~ Chapter 23 ~

In just one dunking, The Boss and the men who worked for him have taught me that anything can, and will happen to me.  As I’m hanging here, with shit and piss and mud, and who-knows-what dripping off me, literally twisting in the wind, they have succeeded in knocking the crap out of me.  They haven’t broken my spirit but they’ve certainly shown me I’m just one of the boys.  Taught me that I was going to have to either lose, or totally bury my ego.  It dawns on me that that might actually be kind of freeing in a weird way.  It’s also the first time it hits me that anything that can be done to any other guy here, can and more than likely will be done to me.  These guys ARE going to knock any arrogance outta me.  They ARE gonna loosen me up!

It’s a cool enough day that hanging up at the top of the poles, dripping wet and filthy, with the breeze blowing pretty hard, that I start to shiver as I hang there.  I’m feeling pretty fuckin’ miserable, and I do feel truly “slopped-up!”  The fifty extra pounds is really stretching me too.  I feel like I’m being racked on top of everything else.  I’m wondering how I’m going to be feeling when I get a chance to see the video of this online, if they ever let me go home again, that is.  Just as I’m thinking I can’t take too much more of the stretching the winch begins to lower me back to the pit.  The journey down seems to take forever but as the weights drag me down into the pit I feel the revolting muck ooze around me like some kind of alien devouring my body.  At least the stretch is relaxed once my feet touch bottom and my arms are relaxed slightly … still held above my head … but not stretched tight.  If it wasn’t coming from this muck from Hell the warmth of being mostly submerged in it would have been welcome after shivering at the top of the poles.

My mind keeps trying to protect me from thinking about what I’m standing in, and my mind wanders to actually wishing I was being scarecrowed instead.  While I’m thinking about that and imagining myself hanging on that cross again, and how I look there, the winch pulls me out of the messy quagmire.  I had’t noticed Moore come up the hill to perform the duty of adding another twenty-five pounds of weight to my spreader bar.  He spoke to me as he added it, laughingly saying, “Well Timbo, ya look good like this … kinda suits ya, shithead!  This oughtta make ya feel more like one of the boys.  See Dildo, anything can happen to ya here bud!”  With this the winch starts pulling me up to the top of the poles again.  I can’t believe how much worse the extra twenty-five pounds makes the hang, but I feel like my ribs are being pulled apart and down and away from my chest.  My armpits feel like they’re being pulled out like taffy and the suspension cuffs are really grabbing my forearms and wrists hard.

There’s no mistaking that these guys really torture a guy.  When they punish a guy, it truly IS punishment.  I’m only part-way through my present punishment and I’ve already learned my lesson.  It doesn’t matter that I might be a little more educated than some of these other recruits, I might come from a white collar background and most of these other guys are labourers, but like Moore said, I’m just one of the boys now.  I get put through the same shit they do … literally!

The process continues and they add another twenty-five pounds to my spreader bar, and by the time I’ve been dunked twice more and pulled back up to the crossbar to “drip dry” a few more times I’m feeling like a candle that’s being dunked in wax repeatedly to form it’s layers, except hot wax would have been a Helluva lot more acceptable to me.

I’m hanging here, totally exhausted and now oblivious to how bad I smell from having been dunked and coated in this foul mixture a number of times.  It seems as though I’m hanging here a lot longer than the five minutes this time though, and I begin to panic a bit, and worry that the winch might be jammed somehow, or maybe even the power went out.  Then I recall the solar panels on the barn roofs and figure they must have a back-up generator for a place like this too.  I remember that these guys are keeping an eye on me, for sure, and I’ll be ok, even though my arms now feel like they’re going to pull out of their sockets, and my intercostal muscles are being stretched to what feels like their max.  I’m going to be really hurtin’ for a while.  I’ve injured them in the past and they take forever to fuckin’ heal!  My ribs also feel like they’ve been completely separated from my chest as they’re pulled down by the hundred pounds that’s hanging on the spreader bar.  I can’t help but wonder if all this stretching I’ve been getting since that first day might actually take me from my 5’ 9” frame up to a six footer.

I’m knocked out of my reverie when I hear sounds of men talking and laughing.  I see Gunnerson, Moore, Hernandez, Troy and a red-headed guy I hadn’t met.  As they get closer I realize he’s in manacles and he doesn’t look happy.  He’s dressed in the same “Dill pickle green” shirt I have on, not that it’s recognizable as green now, and he too is sporting the “country boy casual” look.

“Hey Dill, this is Saunders.  He spent part of the morning scarecrowed again, and then after we gave him a little rest and were getting some food into him, he got a little pissy with us.  A few days ago a subscriber actually bumped into him in town someplace and reported they saw him wearing a T-shirt, of all things … out-of-uniform!  We figured since he mouthed-off, that today’s the day to slop him up a little more and teach him what he gets for disobeying the Dress Code.  We had a little chat with The Boss and he figures Saunders deserves to be taken down a notch or two. He got himself into this.  It’s punishment day for Davey boy, and he’s about to take your place, but we thought we’d watch the show for a few minutes first before we let ya down and get you off of there.”  It had been Moore’s amiable voice but I could tell he was really enjoying both my misery and the dread that i knew Saunders was feeling.

“We wanna make this a good show for Saunders here, so we thought we’d play with ya just a tad more before we get ya down, Timbo.”  It was Troy, and I could hear the playful sadism in his voice that I’d heard when he was using the strap on us last evening.  I’d heard a bit of that from him when he was pushing me a bit in the gym but it was coming through loud and clear now.  It kind of surprised me, since I thought he was a pretty likeable guy before.  The other men seemed to like his company, so I figure he likely is a good guy but has this twisted, sadistic side to him too.  Just like all these soldiers I’ve been meeting.  I wondered what their connection was … if they’d just met him at the gym and recruited him to help them torture his clients beyond the torture he put us through at the gym, or what?

I hear the winch start up again and I’m being lowered to just above the horrendous goo.  Once I’m hovering there closer to my “captors,” Turk tells me they’ taken a vote amongst themselves and decided they wanted to see me take a little more.  He picks up one twenty-five pound plate and Moore picks up another one, and they attach them to my spreader bar like they’d been practicing this synchronization for months.  The extra weight made me feel like I now had a pickup truck hanging from my legs, stretching the fuck outta me.  I might as well have been on that fucked-up, fiendish rack back down in the Torture Barn.  I emit a loud “FAAAAAAAWK!” much to the delight of my torturers, and I notice Saunders cringe.  He knows he’s in for it once they’re done toying with me.  I wonder to myself if he’s embarrassed about dressing-down at all.  He shouldn’t be.  I notice he looks almost as good as Moore does when he’s dressing all country boy casual along with us.  With Saunders’ cropped red hair and short beard, he actually looks pretty damned hot in this dark “pickle green” shirt.

I’m raised to the top of the crossbeam again and as the “elevator” is going up, Troy tells me they decided I needed another twenty minutes.  I’m in complete agony now but have gone into this weird, almost trance-like state even though I’m super-aware of what’s happening.  If I hadn’t known before that these guys didn’t give a shit about how much pain or humiliation we recruits were made to suffer, I fully understood that now.

They also had made it very clear that none of us were too “special” to avoid any disgusting, miserable, or painful treatment.

Hanging here with a hundred and fifty pounds stretching me out, I wanted to be able to cry “Uncle,” but they weren’t giving me any opportunity to do that.  I’m in as much agony as when they had me on that wretched rack, but they weren’t offering a way out this time.  “Turk” had said twenty more minutes, so I figured that meant I’d be hanging  for at least ten more.  I hear the men shouting both taunts and a bit of encouragement too me, and also hear them making remarks about me to each other.  “Bet Dildo won’t be quite so uppity now, huh?” … “Always thought Timbo was full of shit!” … “Dill looks pretty good mucked-up, don’t he?  Think we’ll have to mess him up a lot more often!” … that sort of thing.

The winch begins to lower me, and just as my feet are going in for … well, I’ve lost track of how many times I’d been dipped … Moore says to me, “Just bein’ a sloppy country boy oughtta be a piece of cake for ya from now on, huh Pick?”  Then Troy pipes up with “Yeah, this treatment always seems to bring a guy down a notch or two!  Dill, we’ve got ways of knocking any inhibitions and snootiness outta ya boy!”

I’m up to my chin in the repulsive slop again, and I see Dave Saunders’ face go pale.  Gingers always look like they’ve never seen the sun, but since Saunders had spent at least the past two mornings being scarecrowed he actually looked pretty tanned.  They must’ve smeared him in SPF 1500 before they strung him up there.  I wanted to be able to tell him ‘it’s not as bad as it looks,’ but as much as I wanted to make him feel a little better about what was about to happen to him, I couldn’t bring myself to lie to the guy.  It WAS as bad as I figured it must look.  Fuck, it’s worse than it must look.  At least standing here in the goo pit, it gives my muscles, ligaments and any other sinews in my body a bit of relief from the insane stretch these guys were subjecting me to yet again.  As gross as getting dunked in this shitty mess is, I had gotten to actually look forward to the relief it provided.

Up I go again, and as the muck drips off me I hear Saunders begging them not to do it to him, and I figure cuz he’s offering up possible alternative punishments for himself they know just how badly he wants to avoid this particular punishment, and that the more he pleads, the worse they’re gonna make it for the poor guy.

As I’m being raised, I feel as though my legs have been anchored to the ground, but the winch is relentlessly stretching me.  It’s just all the weight giving that impression, but it might as well be happening that way.  My brain decides I’ve had all I can take, and I pass out.

I awake again to the smell of ammonia, but even before I open my eyes I know it’s not the smelling salts this time.  I’ll never forget the stench of this combination cesspool and compost pit.  I do my five minutes and then the winch lifts me up and out, but this time stops when my feet come clear.  I hang there as Hernandez and Moore don protective rubber gear.  I feel some of the most recent sloppy mess dripping off me as I wait to see what’s next.

Just as I feel like I might be about to pass out again two of the plates are removed from the bar.  It seems like the relief is heaven-sent with even twenty-five pounds off.  They leave me for another minute … then two more plates are removed.  With just seventy-five pounds remaining on the bar it almost gives me the sensation that I might be about to float … but not quite … even seventy-five pounds hanging from your feet pulls you apart pretty successfully.  Another minute while the men observe me … then the last weight is removed from the spreader bar.  My muscles begin to contract and I can perceive my body naturally pulling itself back to it’s more normal places again.  I figure I’m likely a good inch or so taller though, even so.  Hell, who needs a chiropractor when you’ve got these idiots around?

 

~ Chapter 24 ~

They leave me hanging for a more few minutes, likely in part to allow my body adjust, and partly to make the agony even worse for Saunders, and maybe partly to let just a little more of the awful crap that’s covering me drop off my insanely sore body.  It’s Gunnerson who finally says, “I think he’s learned his lesson, boys.  Let’s get ‘im down.”  Hernandez reaches out and grabs my up-stretched left arm at the shoulder and pulls me over above dry land, beside the pit as someone operates the buttons for the winch to give the chain some slack.  As I’m pulled away from the pit, Moore grabs my other arm and the two support me till my feet are planted on the ground.  They lower me to my ass and then help me lie down on the grass.  Moore unhooks the suspension cuffs from the chain but then he and Hernandez drag me a few feet away from the side of the pit.  They know they don’t have any worries about me being able to go anywhere in my present state.

They’ve placed me just out of the way so they can get Saunders set up in another set of suspension cuffs.  Though instead of using the spreader bar on his ankles, they attach a shorter one to the front of his knees.  He’s soon to learn why there is this variation.  The guys then bend his legs up behind him and tie his ankles to his thighs.  Having just been through this recurring dunking into the disgusting sludge I think I have a pretty good idea of why Saunders is getting this change in how he’s tied, but the thought seems too horrible to me to be true.  They did say he gave them a piece of his mind though, so maybe they are nasty enough to do to him what crosses my mind.  I begin to wonder if I have a small sadistic streak of my own.  A week ago this thought wouldn’t have entered my head.  Saunders puts up a small fight, but the winch and chain easily win the battle and I can see a bit of bare skin just above his belt and below his shirttails, when his shirt gets pulled up a little with his stretch as he hangs above the pit.

“Ya like him like that, Dill?”  It’s Moore’s voice.  “You looked every bit that good hangin’ there, Fuck-up!”  I loved that half-compliment coming from Moore, since I really did think Saunders did make a great-looking “country boy,” and it made me want to be able to watch the videos of some of the punishments I’d taken in the past few days.  Something in me needed to see how I looked going through this stuff.  Saunders seems to be a bit of a hotdog, and the way he’s dressed, (like me) made me kinda want to see the guys rough him up a bit.  As if they read my mind, Gunnerson and “Turk” added fifty pounds to Dave’s spreader bar, and I immediately see just a bit more bare skin at his sides, where I’d seen it when he first swung over above the pit.

“Anybody need to take a piss?”  It was Turek asking the question.  I really did but I didn’t figure I was included in the question.  “Turk”, Gunnerson, and Moore (now out of the protective gear) all went around to the far side of the pit, stood there, unbuttoned their flys and they each took one long piss.  I knew they’d gone to the far side for my benefit, so I could see them urinate, and Saunders had an even better view.  I could see he was repulsed, since he knew he was about to be plunged into a gunge pit that had just been made even a little more revolting.  It was bad enough to know there was piss in there, but really bad to see it being added in the copious amounts that came out of those three guys.

“Dill, how about you?  You need to take a leak?”  I was surprised Troy was being thoughtful enough to think I might need to go by now, but figured he just wanted me to make things a little worse for Saunders too.  I said, “No, I’m good thanks!” but Turk insisted.  I felt five pairs of eyes on me as I struggled very unsteadily to my feet.  I thought I’d try to save Saunders having to be lowered into my urine too, at least, and began to take down my zipper and pull my cock out right where I was.  Turk yelled at me and told me to get my ass over by the edge of the pit.  I slowly managed to stagger to the edge of the disgusting slop tank, and took the most amazing feeling leak I think I’d had in a week.  It felt like I was standing there pissing for ten minutes.

Just as I start to pull up my fly I get shoved hard from behind and do a bellyflop facedown into the pit.  The shove had been as much a downward push as one that sent me forward, so it made me submerge totally as I hit the filthy quagmire.  As I’m fighting to get my feet under me in the pit so I can somehow get to the edge and pull myself out, I hear loud laughter from the four soldiers.  Since my eyes are still closed, I can’t tell if Saunders is laughing at me too or not.  Troy and Moore glove-up, and each take me by the wrists when I get to the side of the pit and pull me out, all the while still chuckling.  Moore says with a smirk, “Don’t worry buddy, we’re not through breakin’ you in yet, Dilly boy!”

They drag me about ten feet from the downhill end of the pit, where while I was hanging I had seen three sections of chainlink fence.  They were about four feet wide and seven feet long, and separated about a foot and a half from each other.  Instead of standing upright like a regular fence they were at a 45 or 50 degree angle, maybe even slightly more upright than that.  I was about to learn that they were “drying racks” for the unlucky buggers who’d just been through the dunking punishment.

 

~ Chapter 25 ~

It was a hot, sunny day, and as the men slid me up onto the chainlink bed, I knew I was going to fry there as the muck dried on me.  At least I wouldn’t get sunburned covered in this glop!  Moore and Turek had a supply of straps with them and they secure my neck first, snug but not too tight.  Next they strap me on under my arms, at my elbows and then wrists.  I wasn’t going anywhere, and it was obvious I was intended to know that.  Next they fasten ratchet straps down on my chest and right over my navel.  These they DID tighten down hard.  I felt like they were trying to crack my chest, and they squeeze my bellybutton right down to my spine with the strap, just as they had done when I was in their vehicles.  There is no way I’m going to get anything close to a full breath for however long they’re planning to leave me on my “display rack.”  They use more straps on both legs at my crotch, just above my knees and at my ankles … my legs spread about two feet apart.  A relief after the wide spread they’d been in while I was being dunked.  Moore then comes up to my face and wipes the gunk off my lips with his gloved hand.  He tells me to open my cake-hole, and shoves a large penis gag in far enough to make me gag.  He chuckles at this.  “You’ll learn, boy!”  Then he puts the straps down through the chainlink and tightens them, really pushing the back of my head into the fencing material.  I’m not a bit comfortable in my new bed!

“We figured since we let Saunders see you suffer for a bit, we’d give you the best seat in the house for his punishment, Dill!”  Turek chuckles as he speaks the words.  “This is Dave’s first shot at this penalty, but since he blew-up at us while we were being nice and feeding him an’ all, we’re really going to give it to him in this little dunking station we’ve got here.  We built it, so we might as well make good use of it, huh Dill?”

Saunders has been left hanging just slightly above the sludge the whole time the men have been “taking care” of me, and getting me settled on my metal bed, where at this angle I have a good view of him even though I can’t raise my head to watch.

Now that I’m secured the men focus their attention on Saunders.  “So Davey boy, guess it’s true what they say about gingers and their tempers, eh son?”  It’s Gunnerson’s voice.  “Well, we’re gonna make you think twice about losing it with us Saunders.  I don’t think Pick here liked his treatment much, but yours is going to be SO much better Fuckwad!  How are those legs doin’, boy?”  Saunders manages to get out a cocky sounding, “How the fuck d’ya think?”

Gunnerson nods to Turek and Hernandez, and they each grab a plate and add it to the ends of Dave’s spreader bar.  He yells, “Fuckin’ CHRIIIIIIST!” and Gunnerson tells them to add another fifty pounds to him.  with the hundred fifty pounds on him already, the bottom of Saunders’ shirttails are already at his belt.  If his shirt had been tucked-in it wouldn’t be by now, or just barely.

“Guess you’d better learn to keep your mouth shut, eh Saunders?” Again, it’s Gunnerson and he definitely sounds like he means business.  There’s no element of the sadistic sense of humour in it that I’ve heard from him at times … none of the “Let’s get ‘im good, boys!” feel to it.  He’s dead serious about punishing Saunders.  “So Cocksucker, your treatment is going to be a little different than Pickle’s here was.  We’re going to adjust the winch so it dunks you right to the bottom of the tank for thirty seconds every time, so you’d better take a good breath before you go in, boy!  Then it’ll pull you up to the top and, like Dill, you hang for five minutes.  Again, like Dildo here, the only break you’re going to get is when we come add more weight.  You’d better learn to enjoy the thirty seconds rest your body will get when you’re on your knees in the pit Shithead, cuz that hundred fifty pounds is gonna really be pulling you apart.  If you’re finding it tough now Saunders, think about how it’s going to feel half an hour from now when we add another fifty, and another half hour after that when we take you up to two fifty.  I think you’re going to be going home to your girlfriend a taller fella than when you left her this morning Fucker!  And certainly smelling worse!”  With this Gunnerson signals to Moore, who pokes a number on the box on the post, and Saunders is lowered, squirming into the pit and disappears out of sight.  I think to myself that it seems like a long thirty seconds and think how long it must be seeming to this handsome ginger.  When the winch starts up again he forgets to spit out first and as he takes in a big gulp of air he also sucks back a bunch of the filth he’d just been swimming in.  He chokes and splutters and mouths off again, but the men just laugh at him as he takes his first ride up to the top of the posts.

As I lie on my chainlink bed taking all of this in, I think about how much worse my own dunking could have, and might in the future be.  It registers with me that each of the numbers on the electrical box likely was for a different program for the winch, and that it could leave a guy under for various times, and it was likely also programmed for our different heights.  I feel for Saunders hanging there, starting out with the amount of weight I had hanging from my legs at the end of the ordeal, and he was only just beginning his “adventure.”

I make a mental note that I had to try to be better about controlling my own temper with these guys.  I figure if they think they can add another hundred pounds to this redhead before they’re done with him, he must be muscular as fuck under those clothes.  I felt like I was being pulled apart with the hundred fifty pounds on me.  Two hundred fifty would just be insanely painful … plus, they’re only giving Saunders a thirty second break from his stretch instead of the five minutes that I got.  However long they leave him to endure this punishment, he’s going to be getting stretched most of the time.  Man, he’s going to be useless for hours after they finally get him down.

The soldiers watch Saunders take his ride into the pit a few more times as I lie baking in the sun on my deviously efficient “tanning bed”.  As they begin to leave, Hernandez picks up a branch that had been lying nearby and first pokes me playfully above the belt that’s securing my waist down, and then he takes it in both hands and raises it above my gut as though he’s chopping wood.  He brings it down across my abs ten times and says, “Didn’t want you to think we were ignoring ya, maggot shit!”  With this, they leave their two recruits alone …both of us suffering in different ways.

Saunders gets dunked only four or five more times before sleep overtakes my exhausted brain and body.  I awake to jabber from Moore and Gunnerson as they walk up the hill behind me.  Moore picks up the branch that Hernandez dropped beside my uncomfortable bed and jabs me in the side of the ribs.  “Hey, ‘Shake n’ Bake’ … you done?”  The men chuckle, and then he repeats the wood-chopping thing on my gut but he gives me twenty “chops” across the abs, making sure he gets them all.  Once that’s done they move onto Saunders who is just emerging from the mucky goop.  Gunnerson hits what must be the ‘Stop button’ on the box just as the unlucky recruit is raised above the pit and they add the fifty pounds to his spreader bar.  There’s a loud “FAAAAAAAWK!” from Saunders and then Gunnerson restarts the winch, and the redhead travels up to the top of the posts again.  The two soldiers wait around and watch the guy get dunked twice more, and then turn their attention back to me.  Gunnerson picks up the branch this time and gives me another twenty chops to the abs.  “Just tryin’ to clean you up a bit, Dill!” he says, this time with that familiar smirk in his voice.  They leave us alone in our mutual misery.

To be continued…

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