By Pickle

~ Chapter 26 ~

In spite of my exhaustion I manage to stay awake to be “entertained” by this hunky ginger being subjected to his punishment.  He’s really being vocal when he’s not in the goop … moaning, groaning and cursing.  I’m hearing “Fuck!” and “Jesus Christ!” out of him a lot!  I’m amazed he’s got the breath to be able to say anything, since the stretch makes it very hard to get in any air.  By the time I had a hundred and fifty pounds hanging on my legs I could barely succeed in taking even a shallow breath, so I knew with the two hundred on Saunders that he must have an amazing torso, since his muscles were holding him together and allowing him to get this much oxygen.  As built-up as his guns are, I know they must have gone from burning to the numb stage by now.

I’m surprised by the fact that I find myself enjoying seeing him hanging there in agony, and that I’m getting a kick out of seeing him disappear into the muck, and how he looks as he’s hauled out again to hang some more.  Even covered in this shit, piss, mud and compost mixture, this guy is undeniably attractive.  Other than Moore, he’s the best looking guy here and I’m surprised at myself enjoying watching him suffer.  “Fuck!  What’s wrong with me … Dill, get ahold of yourself here boy.  It’s just fuckin’ wrong to be liking seeing this happen to another human being.”  The obvious tent in my jeans as my cock pushed against the denim made it clear I was getting off on Saunders being in his predicament though, and in hearing his deep, masculine voice uttering the cursing complaints and moans.

I hear voices again, but this time it’s Hernandez and Sullivan.  They add two more plates to my partner in suffering, and then it’s Sudsy’s turn to whack the shit out of my guts.  With every “chop” his smile widens and his eyes gleam more.  After thirty of ‘em he’s looking fuckin’ happy!  He chortles to Hernandez, “Nope!  He’s not done yet!” and with this they turn their attention back to Saunders. I figure with the extra weight stretching him out they are at last worried the guy might pass out and drown in the revolting mixture.  The men banter back and forth a bit and make fun of both of us, but they focus both their eyes and their barbs more on Saunders.

While I’m lying here baking on my “oven rack” I feel the gross mixture tightening around me as the sun sucks the moisture out of it.  I can tell it’s not totally dry though. The heat from the sun is even stronger on my abs, since some of the crap has been beaten off of that area of my body.  In a way the sun feels good on my sore, exhausted frame, but it does make me feel as though I’m being actually cooked on the fencing.

When Saunders’ last half hour of torture is up the two men stop the winch when he’s hanging just above the pit.  They let him drain off as they put on the protective rubber suits that I’d seen on the guys who removed me from hanging over the pit.  I hear more men approaching as the guys are getting suited up.  They had Kaufmann in tow.  It was pretty much the whole gang this time … I noticed only Fulton was missing.  “Coffee” was wearing the dark “pickle green” shirt he had on when I was first introduced to him.  Since all three of us had the same shirt on now, I figure this must be the dunking “uniform.”

Once they’re all congregated at the side of the awful man-made “pond” they dunk Saunders once more, I assume for Kaufmann’s benefit, and then lift him out and let him drip off again for a bit.  Zack struggles, trying to get away from Gunnerson and MacKinnon, who are holding him by his arms, which are cuffed behind him.  Moore comes over beside me and while looking down into my face tells me, “Coffee here’s been through this before too Timbo … we just wanted to remind him how much fun it is before we switch these guys out.  Must be a full moon or somethin’ cuz he shot his mouth off at us a while ago too.  This is his third time goin’ on this little ride, so he gets basically the same treatment you just saw Saunders get.  We start him out with two hundred fifty pounds on him and add another fifty after fifteen minutes though.  He stays under for forty-five seconds this time.  The good news for him is that the ride only lasts forty-five minutes at this level of difficulty.  Gotta tell ya though “Bo” … from first hand experience, it feels more like twelve hours when you’re going’ through it, so you’d better mind your P’s & Q’s buddy boy.”  He gives me a big wink as he says “buddy boy” and it almost makes me feel like he meant it in a nice way.  The wink also could have meant he knew I’d fuck up, lose my temper once too often and wind up getting myself in this mess again, and at this level.  My brain couldn’t even register the thought of three hundred pounds hanging from my legs, let alone being submerged in that awful pit for forty-five seconds on every dunking.  It stunk in more ways than one!

 

~ Chapter 27 ~

Hernandez and Sullivan rescue the formerly gorgeous-looking ginger from his punishment and drag him to the chainlink rack to my left, and affix him there.  Since the tight gag prevents me from turning my head, I can only assume his bondage is exactly like mine.  I can see Zack putting up a decent struggle with Moore and Turek, but it’s of course, a lost cause.  They get him hanging in punishment position, with his ankles tied to his thighs, as Saunders had been.  A minute later they’ve got two hundred and fifty pounds hanging from his spreader bar.  I’m hear him gasp as the weights pull him apart, and I can see the stretch on him since there’s already a good inch of bare skin showing on his gut between his belt and the lowest edge of his shirttails.

The guy’s in so much fuckin’ trouble, and I know it’ll be only a matter of time before I find myself back in his place and getting stretched just as hard.  For some reason, seeing Kaufmann like this and realizing it will sooner or later be me, makes my cock push hard against my jeans.  Gunnerson notices and calls out to Zack, “Hey Kaufmann!  I think somebody here likes your little predicament.”  The men all guffaw at both his statement and at me getting caught with the extreme hard-on.

He continues, “Well now Timbo.  Maybe we didn’t make you suffer quite enough, huh?”  He gives me a couple jovial pats on the left pec and then rams his fist up hard into my nut sack.  It’s full-force and takes me off guard, so I scream into my gag.  I can see by Gunnerson’s eyes he takes note of the fact that it didn’t make me lose my erection.  “Since that first one got such a nice reaction, I think five’s a good number, huh Pick?”  He gives me four more punches, just as hard as the first, and about a minute apart, so I’d have time to think about it more.  It’s a good thing my jeans are coated in hardened crap from the pit or he’d notice that the last punch made me shoot my load.  There’d been so much macho stimulation over the past God-knows-how-long, that had I been on my back under the crossbeam Kaufman was now hanging from, I think my cum would have hit it.  The orgasm was like an electric shock going through my entire body, but trussed up tightly on the fencing as I was I know the shuddering, thankfully,  would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone observing me.

Coffee is being put through an extreme punishment with so much weight stretching him out, and being submerged for what must seem like an eternity, especially with the difficulty in getting in much of a breath from being pulled apart so far.  It’d be fucking hard to hold your breath for forty-five seconds when you can’t get much breath in in the first place.  Since this is such a tough punishment … one that could go wrong very fast, when the men head back down the hill they leave Moore and “Turk” behind to keep their eyes on the suffering blond recruit, who between dunkings is begging them to let him off the hook.  “Sorry stud … you got yourself into this!” Turek seems to have no empathy at all, and even though I can’t see his face, I can tell he has a huge smile on his face as he speaks.  He makes it pretty obvious he likes making the fellas he’s selected at the gym suffer, and he sure as Hell enjoys watching us squirm.

After fifteen minutes the winch is stopped and they add another fifty pounds to poor Coffee.  I wonder if the human anatomy can actually take that much weight dangling from it, and Moore must have read that thought from the expression on my gagged face as Zack is first dunked with this amount of stretching on his body, and then raised up to the top again.  The handsome soldier stands at the bottom end of my wire “bunk” and tells me “Don’t worry dude.  Another couple months and we’ll have you whipped into good enough shape to take this too.  Kaufman wouldn’t have been able to survive this when we first recruited him either.  Don’t forget all those demerits you’ve got, Dill.  There’s a ton of cool ways to make you work ‘em off, and the subscribers are chompin’ at the bit to see what we’re gonna come up with for ya next bud.  You seem to be one of their favourites so far.  Lot’s of requests for some interesting punishments for you.  You’re like me Bo, you’re the kinda guy who just naturally looks like he’s askin’ for it.”

The thought that Moore does look like he should be put through loads of torture had actually crossed my mind, and the few times I’ve seen him in trouble have gotten me very “riled up.”  I realize that I want to see the guy roughed-up and punished a lot more, and the fact that he labelled me as the same kind of guy as him made me feel very complimented in a weird sort of way.  “The first time The Boss saw you at the gym he told Turk he thought you looked like a guy with the kinda cowboy in him that needed some good macho roughin’-up.  Turk texted Gunnerson and me to come check you out and see what we thought.  The minute we clapped eyes on ya we knew you were a fella that needed us to have a pile of fun with him … your fate was sealed just by that cocky-lookin’  “resting face” you’ve got, Dill!  Believe me boy, this is just the beginning for you.  You haven’t even faced our little initiation yet maggot!  You’re gonna fuckin’ LOVE that!”   Turk can’t help but overhear this little monologue and laughs a little too loudly at the effect he knows it’s having on me.

Once Zack has completed his sentence he is strapped tightly onto the last chainlink rack, and we’re left alone to fry in the sun.  Three amigos, dressed identically, all covered in the same disgusting muck, all stinking to high heaven, all restrained exactly the same way, and suffering from the same hot sun. The only difference between us is that they’re more muscular, and my hair is longer.  I figure I won’t get to keep my wavy head of hair for long.

 

~ Chapter 28 ~

Once the active punishments seem to be over, and we’re all enduring the passive punishment of baking on our racks.  I realize I’m liking the brotherhood of our mutual suffering … of being displayed for each other as we’re messed with by these macho soldiers in various ways.  Even though I thought I hadn’t really done anything to deserve what I’d been put through earlier, I like the feeling that Saunders, Kaufmann and I were the “bad boys” being punished together.  As I’m lying here I feeling a real camaraderie with these two guys who are laid out beside me … on display!  Even though I know being restrained here in the sun is part of my torture I understand that I need to take advantage of this chance to rest, and since both my mind and body are completely exhausted, it’s not long before I drop off to blessed sleep, in spite of the relentless heat of the sun.

I have no clue how much time as passed when I wake up from the gag being removed from my mouth.  Sergeant Moore removes the straps from around my arms, chest and gut too … and it’s the first full breath I’ve had in likely hours.  My body feels like I’ve been hit by a train.  As I come around a little more, I realize there’s not an inch of me that isn’t in pain from the ordeals I’ve been through this past week.  Moore hands me a large plastic bottle with a bent plastic straw emerging from the top.  It contains a yellowy-green liquid and I’m told to drink it all.  I’m both parched and famished, so I didn’t really need to be told to down it.  At this point, I didn’t even care what it might be.  It tasted similar to an electrolyte-type of juice though … not exactly the martini I could use about now, but certainly what was actually needed to revive me a little.  As I begin to down the concoction, Moore releases my legs from their restraints.  Since he sat me up to drink I’m able to see that Saunders and Kaufmann are being released as well, and also served what looks to be the same “refreshment”.

As I see their schmutz-covered bodies and faces I remember that my own face is covered in filth and I begin to pick away at the layers of it.  My hair is literally plastered with the stuff too and I realize it’s going to be impossible to get the stuff out without a really long, hot shower.  That thought makes me suddenly crave one more than anything else I can think of at the moment.

Moore notices me picking away at the dried glop on my face and brings over a bucket and small towel.  He takes the juice bottle out of my hand and then sets the bucket between my legs, and hands me the large washcloth.  I’m happy to find out the water is actually hot enough that it not only will feel good, but also should help to get my face at least a little cleaner.  Once I get it as clean as I think it’ll come without the jets from a shower-head, or actually submerging it in a hot tub of water, I move on to trying to get some of the crap off my bare arm.  Gunnerson startles me by coming up behind me and yelling in my ears,  “No fucker!  That stays on for now!” and he grabs the cloth from my hands and removes the bucket from between my knees.  For a fleeting second I think of trying to grab it and douse him with the water it contains.  My brain instantly recognizes the fact that in my present state of discomfort and muscle fatigue, that there’s no way I could be quick enough to accomplish that.  I also realize I’d be made to really pay for that mistake.  Even though it’s in my makeup to be that belligerent, I was in too much pain to ask for that kind of trouble right now.

Saunders and Coffee were a little more recognizable once they’d been allowed to clean their faces too, but since they both were sporting “High’n Tights, they had been able to get the caked muck off of their entire heads.  I could almost see their hair colours now.  None of us make any attempt to escape our chainlink beds.  I knew that both of my fellow recruits had to be as sore and tired as I was, so we all knew instinctively we wouldn’t get far if we tried to make a break for it, especially since we each had three Tier 1 soldiers guarding us.

Moore was to my left, Fulton, to my right, and a big muscular blond, and well-tanned guy I’d not yet seen (even online that first night when I’d checked out the site) was at the foot of my “rack” … he had the look of a surfer dude type turned military.  His eyes were even bluer than Moore’s.  “I like the looks of this guy, fellas.  I’m gonna enjoy getting my hands on ‘im on my own for a couple months.”  I knew as soon as he opened his mouth that he was an Aussie.  “Pickle here looks like he could use an SAS immersion course.  I’m gonna love puttin’ some muscle on this guy and toughenin’ ‘im up Aussie style.  When can we crate ‘im up and send ‘im over mates?”  He winks at Moore, who is studying my face to see if he can tell how these words are affecting me.  I figure the hunky Aussie is teasing me, so I smile weakly as the three soldiers chuckle.  Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to be taking an unplanned trip to Australia with this handsome stud, and figure there are much worse fates.

Moore introduces him as Sergeant Randy Thornton, and that he’s on a similar team of men who run another “boot camp” for young fellas they recruit from a gym north of Brisbane, and that he’s here to witness how his American Tier 1 counterparts are training up the local Canadian boys.  Moore tells me that there are a few more of these “camps” around the World and that they all are run slightly differently, but that they do exchanges of both soldiers and recruits from time to time, just to keep things interesting.  “And Bucky boy, just seeing this guy face-to-face makes me want to drag him back home to make him sweat, suffer, squirm and scream there, mate.”  This is the first time I’ve heard Moore’s first name used on him.  His southern drawl made me imagine it was something more along the lines of Billy-bob, or Jethro, or possibly Clem, but “Buck” does suit him really well now that I think about it.

 

~ Chapter 29 ~

Gunnerson yells, “Ok boys, let’s get these useless hunks o’ shit back down the hill and get ‘em cleaned up a little.”  With this said, all three of us are grabbed by our personal guards and lifted off the wire beds and onto our feet.  Each of us are efficiently cuffed behind our backs, and our ankles shackled again for the march down the hill.  With this many guards plus we three prisoners it must look like a friggin’ parade if anyone was watching.

We’re steered toward the far end of the “Torture Barn” where I spot several frames made of 6X6 lumber.  Each of them are the same height, about nine feet, I’m guessing, and about six feet wide.  They all have winches and chains top and bottom that are obviously intended to spread-eagle a guy and stretch him out tightly.  Saunders, Kaufman and I are each led to one of the frames, side-by-side and forced to sit under them facing uphill.  Moore kneels behind me and quickly threads his arms under my pits and around my chest, giving me the strongest bear hug I’ve ever felt.  In a way, I like the proximity and feeling of something that seems to be a little more than camaraderie in the way he does it.  His face is very close to mine and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.

There are four cuffs placed by the upright to my left, and I’m not given long to check out the view up the hill before the Aussie puts a knee on one of my feet while he unlocks the fetter from the other ankle.  He then puts a suspension cuff around that foot and ankle.  He then switches out and kneels on my now prepped foot while he repeats the performance on the other.  Thornton clips each foot onto the awaiting chain, and then stands up and starts to crank the winch that’s attached to these two chains.  My legs spread out as the chains pull them upward.  “Bucky” holds my torso as I’m lifted off the ground, and hangs onto me till I’m hanging with my arms still behind my back, and my head is about three feet above the ground.

It appears to be his job to put the leather cuffs on my wrists.  So the metal cuffs are removed and then padded leather ones go on.  He attaches each to a chain at the bottom of the posts.  I’m now in an inverted spread-eagle but my arms have some slack for the moment.  Since I’ve been inverted, I’m now facing downhill and in full view of the road again.  I check to my left, and my “mates”, as Sergeant Randy Thornton would call them were finding themselves in the same predicament.

I hear the winch again as I’m raised another two feet or so off the ground.  I’m surprised by the fact that my arms are still not being pulled out by their chains.  Gunnerson barks at the men, “Ok fellas, come have a look at these pitiful excuses for “men” and see what ya think.  Should we give ‘em a break, or make ’em all a little taller again?  I’m sure they’ve shrivelled up a bit while they were lazing in the sun up there.”

The soldiers are obviously enjoying looking at the three very dirty, unlucky boys who are hanging upside-down in front of them.  “Thornton, you’re our guest.  You decide!”  Thornton looks us all over,  pretending to do a true military inspection of the three of us, both front and back.  He walks across in front, stops at each of us, looks us up and down and feigns disgust and disappointment.  The Aussie soldier then moves around the back and as far as I can tell, does the same thing behind us.  He then comes around to my side and says, “I want them stretched.  Especially THIS one!”  He gives my gut an unexpected, open-handed swat that knocks the wind out of me for a few seconds.  The slap was so hard that it made my brain feel like it’d been directly jabbed with a cattle prod.

He takes a second crank on the post in his hands and starts turning it.  The slack in the chains departs, and my arms are stretched till I can definitely feel a good pull on them.  “How’s that Timbo?  I tell him it’s pretty tough, and he checks the chain on each arm by pulling on it … digging each boot heel into the ground and really giving each chain a few good, hard yanks in turn. “Naw, that might be “tough” by Canadian standards Bo my boy, but you’re in an Aussie’s hands now mate!”  With this he returns to the crank and as he turns it says jovially, “I think it’s time to make you a little taller, Dill!”  He takes me out to the toughest, tightest stretch I’ve been in since these maniacs basically abducted me a week or so ago.

My mind and body have been through so much, I’m not even clearly aware of time anymore.  I’m beginning to realize how much bondage, punishment and torture can fuck with your mind.  It’s like time travel in a way.  It can slow time down and even stop it, but it can also make hours whiz on by in what seems like seconds at times.

As the pain of the stretch this Aussie applies to me registers in my brain, I hear the winch on the frame next to me, and Saunders yells “FAAAWK!”  The winch stops for a bit and then it starts up again till it gets another expletive out of the handsome, young redhead.  I try to see him as best I can but the posts on each of our frames obstruct most of my view.  I hear a “thump” and then another shout out of Saunders.  I realize he too has just received that unbelievably powerful swat on the abs from Thornton’s open hand.

Then it’s Coffee’s turn, and he receives the same treatment.  The Aussie then returns to me and turns the crank that’s attached to my legs.  He turns it till he gets a “You fuckin’ PRICK!” out of my mouth!  He laughs loudly and is joined by the rest of the men in his enjoyment of getting me to curse him out, in spite of the fact that they all know, that I know I’ll pay for it.  He leaves me and joins the other soldiers, who have been watching Thornton’s little production of “Stretch the Dirty Boys!”  He’s got me pulled out so far that I literally can’t move a muscle.  I can move my head and neck but that’s it!

Gunnerson snarls, “Let’s get the first layer off ‘em boys.”  I’m approached by Moore and Thornton but I’m dizzy both from being inverted and the exhaustion.  My mind starts to wander again and I wonder when I’ve last eaten anything.  I know the sports-type drink they gave me must have some affect on my blood sugar levels but God-knows-when I last had any real protein in my body.  Gunnerson growls out “Flog the fuck outta these worthless pieces of shit, men!”

 

~ Chapter 30 ~

Moore and Thornton are each equipped with two heavy leather floggers and work me over from opposite sides.  They work my whole body over from feet to chest and shoulder blades.  Only my kidney area is avoided.  They rotate around me like they’re brushes in some kind of fiendishly demented car wash.  I hear screams and realize some of them are coming from me, but others are coming from my fellow recruits.  The pain is unbearable and I pass out.

The smell of ammonia again, and I’m awake.  Gunnerson is pushing the small nozzle of the open bottle far up my left nostril.  “Commence!  Strap the next layer of crap off of these useless sons-of-bitches!”  With this My guards fetch two prison straps and repeat their surreal and devious dance around my inverted and stretched body.  The screaming from the three of us is now constant, and through the pain I know at least I have company in my torture.

Through both the flogging and the strapping I see and feel chunks of dried gunk flying off my body, so I know that at least some of the horrible filth is being beaten off of my body.  It feels like I’m in some kind of man-sized washing machine being tumble-washed with a bunch of rocks.  I look up toward my feet and just as I lift my head to look I feel the hardest WHACK on my gut I’ve had since I’ve been “abducted”.  Just then a large piece of dried gunk flies off my lower abs and my shirttail un-pastes itself from where it had been glued to my jeans, and flaps downward revealing my bare abs.  I see Thornton smile wryly and drop the strap.  He approaches me but then moves to the crank that controls the chains at the bottom of the frame.  He stretches me even more, till he’s satisfied it’s not safe to take me any further.  He then swats my now bare abs with his huge open paws repeatedly, and through the pain it makes me feel like I’m a human bongo drum. In the manner he did it, it seemed to be applied in the way an older brother messes with a younger brother.  Sadistic but with a certain amount of fraternity.  He winks at Moore, and says, “Gotta give Pickle boy here a real nice pink belly!”  I know instinctively from the burn that it was already a very bright fire engine red before he even started swatting me with his hands.

“Ok men, time to finish gettin’ these fellas cleaned-up.  There’s a cell with their names on it waiting for ‘em.”  Gunnerson always sounds happy to be giving orders that mean pain for someone, and it felt like it was usually me.  With this, Fulton, the third of my three “personal guards” for this part of the punishment, drags a pressure washer into my sight. I see two other soldiers do the same for their ginger and blond targets.  I hear the whirr of the machines as the men approach us with them.  On the order given by Gunnerson the three men begin to blast us with the spray from a machine that was never intended as a shower for a human being.  Fulton is far enough away from me that the laser-like spray isn’t removing my skin, but it sure as Hell feels like it is.  Especially since my whole body is already raw from the flogging and strapping it’s endured from my other two “personal guards.”

After what seems like hours of this treatment, Gunnerson inspects each of us, deciding that Saunders and I have been cleaned-off as much as possible, but he gets Sutherland to keep going on Coffee for a few more minutes.  Once he’s satisfied with our “cleanliness” he personally loosens the lower winch a little on each of us.  He says, “It’s been a long day fellas, but I think there’s still enough strength in that sun to get you boys dry.”  Then to the soldiers he says “Yeah, we’ll let these maggots hang for a bit and let ‘em think about the kinda treatment backtalk can get a fella around here.”

The soldiers depart, and since they leave us un-gagged, it’s the first chance we “maggots” get to converse with each other, limited by exhaustion though.  We basically just check on each other and ask if we know why each of us has been chosen for this “program” that we’ve been recruited for, and if anybody knows it’s purpose, if there IS one beyond the sadistic enjoyment they’re getting out of torturing us.  None of us know the answer to that.

“Is there a little part of either of you guys that kinda likes what they do to us?  Kinda likes how tough they are on us?  Pushing limits and shit.  It makes ya feel kinda macho doesn’t?  Like it’s some kind of extreme military tough guy club!”  It’s Saunders who has the guts to voice what we’ve all been sorta thinking.  As crazy as it seems, I’ve been feeling kind of privileged in a way, that these macho soldiers are abusing me like this, and it’s a relief to hear another guy say it out loud.

Though I skied, cycled, swam and was an experienced scuba diver, I had never played team sports, so I missed out on the fraternity that comes from that.  The treatment from these soldiers, as horribly painful and humiliating as it was, made me feel like I was part of something very male.  I had hated that I had been unwillingly “drafted” to be part of this group of young guys and military men, but several days later, and I was feeling worried that if I couldn’t measure up, and got kicked out of this “Country boy Punishment Club,” that I would not only be ashamed of myself, but also would regret it, and miss being part of it.  I realized that in a weird way, I was becoming a bit addicted to this treatment, and to the relationships I was forming with both the soldiers and my fellow “prisoners”.

I realized that’s really what we were.  They could keep track of us at all times with the GPS system.  We all knew they were tamper-proof, and if we tried to run anytime that we weren’t at the “farm,” that they’d just track us down and really torture the shit out of us for the attempted escape.  I wondered if anyone had trie that yet.

The other guys all had jobs, and most of them had girlfriends, partners or wives, so the soldiers allowed them that part of their lives.  I was the only one that I knew of, that they could put through this “training” 24/7 if they wanted to … and at the moment it seemed like they were planning on that, since I had no idea how long it had been since I’d slept in my own bed at this point, but it seemed like forever!  I knew as much as I hated the treatment I was getting, I also understood with every aching molecule in my body, that I was feeling more masculine than I ever had … more boyish, but at the same time also more manly.  This was a macho adventure, and a challenge I would no longer refuse, even if I could.  It was then that I knew … they HAD me!

Metal would like to thank Pickle for this story!

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