By Pickle
No sooner had I agreed, then he went over to a counter at the side of the barn and took something from it. It was Pravilo wrist cuffs. I’d seen this Russian workout machine that stretches you out with weights while you do exercises designed to be done on the machine. When I saw it on YouTube I couldn’t resist going to their American distributor’s web site. The more I checked it out, the more I knew I had to have one. I caved in and bought the whole set-up. It took half a day to get the thing set up when it arrived, even with Steve’s help. It was one of the few pieces of exercise equipment I had that I’d not bought second hand. It’s a cross between working out and going to the chiropractor all-in-one. The cuffs are really comfortable and don’t crush the heel of your thumb into the palm of your hand the way a lot of suspension wrist cuffs do.
Stevey boy came over and said “Your wrists, soldier!” I lifted my arms out in front of me and held them there while he strapped the specialized cuffs on them. He then reached into his duffle bag, routed around a bit, and came out with a short, metal spreader bar, with a chain attached to each end, and a ring in the centre of the chain. He walked over to the switch for my electric winch and lowered it to his chest and hooked the spreader bar onto it. He then brought it a few feet over to hold it in front of me, and grinned.
Using a carabiner clip, he hooked first one wrist cuff onto it and then the other. He still had the winch control in his hand, and he set the switch to the “up” position until my wrists were even with the top of my head.
“Ya know, Pick. You look real good like this dude. Yer kind of what I’d call a ‘classy redneck’ now, with yer shirt tucked-in an’ all. Almost look like yer dressed for Sunday school!” You’re goin’ up in the World, bud!” With this, he winked at me again, and then looked up at the winch and the barn rafter it was attached to. “Yeah, I like ya like this a lot, boy. It’s a real good look on ya! BUT … ya know something,’ Pick? I think we oughta make ya a little more comfortable, huh bro?” He smiled his shit-eatin’ grin and then unbuttoned my shirt down to the navel. He felt me up after he did so, running both hands over my pecs, toying with my nipples a little, and then taking his index finger, slowly ran it between my pecs and upper abs and then hovered in my bellybutton. My “sweet spot!” My cock immediately struggled against the faded denim of my 501s. It didn’t go unnoticed by my new “CO.” He knew what he was doing!
He grabbed my “basket” and gave it a gentle but masculine shaking. He chuckled and grinned again.
Steve then reached for the control for the winch and with a “whirrr” it stretched my arms above my head. He kept it winding upward till I was on the balls of my desert army booted feet.
“Just a sec soldier, don’t go anywhere. I’m just gonna go out and get the camera gear.”
While semi-hanging there I wondered what his plan for me was? I knew he was going to really mess with me, but had no clue how?
Steve returned with the two video cameras, tripods and a few fill lights. He got them set up so I was well-lit and feeling a bit like I was about to undergo an interrogation. When he was finished, he fetched what looked like a barbell bar, but it had two hooks soldered on about a foot in from each end. I knew immediately that was for the ankle cuffs. Going back near the wall a few more times, he brought out several weight plates too. “Fifty pounds each, soldier!” He gave me another smirk and placed the barbell in front of my feet.
With the winch control in hand, he raised me onto the very toes of my boots. “Awww, now there ya go soldier. ‘En pointe,’ just like the ballerina I always knew ya were, Dill!” He scoffed. I grabbed him around the waist with my legs, putting him in the tightest scissor hold I could, and told him I thought the army likely had to create a SPECIAL, Special Forces division just for him, called the “Pink Berets.” Unfortunately I’d missed gathering his arms into the scissor hold, and he grabbed my nads and put on the pressure till I screamed and let go of him.
“Alright soldier we’re gonna fix that!” He grabbed Pravilo ankle cuffs for each booted ankle and hooked me to the two hooks on the “barbell,” so that my feet were spread out about 3 feet apart. I lifted my knees and tried to jokingly nail him with the bar. “We can fix THAT too, soldier!” With this he secured a fifty-pound plate to each end of the bar. I lifted my knees again, enough to make myself swing a little. “Ok tough guy, we can make it more fun since you seem to want to play that way.” He added another fifty pounds to each end.
He had raised the barbell just high enough off the floor that he could slide the weights on easily, but the edge of the rims still touched the floor. He looked at me again with that sardonic smirk I was beginning to see far too often, and “Whirrr,” the winch pulled me up into the air. He grabbed the bar, pulled it back about three feet and let me swing. I’d already felt the 200 pounds on the bar stretching my body out as soon as the weights were off the floor, but with the swing, it made that weight seem even greater. “Gravity’s a bitch, huh soldier?” He laughed and grabbed me by the waist, digging his fingers deep into my ribs. He knew my ribs were ticklish and I couldn’t take this shit.
My recent fuck-buddy took hold of the winch control once again, and I went for a long, slow, twenty-five foot ride up to the rafters. “I’ll let ya cool yer jets up there for five or ten minutes, Dill, and then I’ll bring ya back on down and we’ll discuss this little challenge idea I’ve got for ya. You don’t know it yet, but this nice little stretch I’ve got ya in right now, just might help ya out a bit.
Between the exertion from the legitimate stretch, and the heat up in the rafters, I was sweating like a pig by the time Steve decided to lower me to the barn floor again. The relief of having the weights on the floor instead of pulling me apart was immense. I figured I’d passed the challenge, and Steve would be donating that 500 bucks to charity.
He eventually brought me back down but did not release me. Instead, I learned that we were only beginning.
“How’d ya like THAT boy? Looks like you enjoyed it a lot judging by that nice boner you’ve got goin’ on there, Dill.” He gave my balls a hard open-handed swat with that last statement. “Don’t worry bub. We’re only just gettin’ started here. You’re gonna have WAY longer arms by the time we’re done here Pick.”
“By the ugly fuckin’ grin you’re wearing on your pudgy little face, it looks like you think you’ve won the challenge, huh buddy boy? Well soldier, sorry to disappoint ya but that was just the intro, dude! Lots more fun to come on today’s program Jimmy boy!”
He circled me like a vulture a few more times. Obviously checking me out as a physical specimen. His incredibly blue eyes had a way of becoming piercing when he wanted them to, and I felt as though my entire body was being scanned with a laser beam. It was kinda like being in one of those scanners at the airport. The clear tubes that are a bit like a futuristic Transporter machine, or possibly an inter-galactic prison intake x-ray inspection device, or something. I always felt kinda “on display,” and a bit nervous when I got plunked in one of those by the screening agents, but at the same time, that weird, half-buried part of me kinda liked it.
“OK Pick, I think it’s time we talk about this little challenge you’ve so stupidly accepted. Silly boy! This is one I’m pretty damned sure you’re not gonna win, my friend. You’re gonna be spluttering down on the beach again before ya know it, Jimbo!”
“Here’s the deal: I call this one “The Shirttails Challenge” and you’re about to embark on it, Fuck-wit.
I’m glad you took the hint and wore one of your sleeveless shirts, Pick. You KNOW I like that redneck look on ya, now don’t ya buddy? And I’ve always really liked this particular shirt on ya too, Bub. Trouble is, now that I see ya with your shirt all nice an’ tucked-in like, that I’m thinkin’ it makes ya look a little too formal for the farm. Just too damned neat for your own good, bro! Like I said, ya look kinda like you’re all dressed up for Sunday School, Pick! Can’t have ya lookin’ like a preppy little sissy boy now can we, soldier? I think we need to get you “slopped-up” and lookin’ like a farm boy again, huh son? What d’ya think, Dill?”
“Now I wonder how we might get those shirttails untucked for ya, soldier?” He sneered. “You’d like that a lot better now wouldn’t ya Pickle. I’m sure you’d be a lot more comfortable. Ya know, in the 6 or 7 years or so I’ve known ya, I think I’ve only seen ya with yer shirttails tucked in 2 or 3 times, total! Must be fuckin’ killin’ ya to have ’em tucked-in like you’re having to adhere to an office dress code, huh bro?”
He knew I preferred my shirt untucked. It’s a lot more comfortable for working, unless I’m around machinery, and then I either take it off, or tuck it in.
I find the same for the cut-off sleeves too, that it sorta keeps me air conditioned, and it’s a lot better than goin’ plain shirtless on the farm, cuz hay scratches when you’re lifting bales, or forking it around for the animals. The shirt protects your upper body well, but with the cut-off sleeves you stay way cooler, and sleeves tend to get in the way anyway. Also means less laundry, since without sleeves the armpits don’t get sweated-up as much.
“Alright boy, so we’re on the same page here. We both want you “slopped-up” a bit. Well, well, Jimmy boy, it’s yer lucky day. You’re gonna be lookin’ like a country boy again in no time, soldier.”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I was real happy to see you come out in that sleeveless shirt Pick. Though for this little challenge, if you had worn a shirt with sleeves still on it, I’m afraid I’d have had to get rid of ’em for ya.” He chortled. “See the thing is, we don’t want the shirt material pulling too much and making you uncomfortable now do we, boy? That’s why I unbuttoned your shirt for ya earlier too … well that, and the fact that I kinda like that mostly open shirt on ya bud. You look hot as fuck with that chest fur of yours, and that sexy treasure trail goin’ down between those hot abs of yours. You look hot as fuck with your shirt open like that bro … showin’ you off a little.”
“By the way, soldier, both the cut-off sleeves and the unbuttoned shirt are gonna help keep those shirttails from pullin’ out too fast … far less yankin’ on the material this way … far less chance of you pullin’ out a win on this one that way too, Dilly boy!”
“Oh damn-it though Jimbo, we decided we kinda LIKE that redneck, country boy look on ya though didn’t we? So I guess we’ll just have to figure out a way to make a sloppier fella outta ya again, right Dill? Get ya back to that sexy, untucked shirttails, farm boy look of yours dude! Sooner the better as far as I’m concerned, soldier!” He gave me a big wink and laughed a deep, masculine chuckle.
Then he explained the rules.
“Ok Pick. The challenge is real simple! … All ya gotta do is squirm your shirttails outta your jeans. That’s it! Easy huh, boy? Every bit of shirt fabric has to be untucked though, or you lose!”
“IF you manage to win, I’ll let you out immediately. We’ll head inside and go online. And I’ll donate the $500 to the charity of your choice. You lose though, and we’re gonna have a little “beach time” this afternoon, when the tide’s coming in.”
“Here’s the rules, Jimmy boy!:
Three rounds. 20 minutes each.
Round 1
“20 minutes hanging halfway up to the rafters with the 200 pounds on ya.”
“You just do everything you can to squirm enough to get your shirttails untucked, but with that weight on ya, it’s gonna be a little tough to squirm.”
“You fail … I let ya down long enough to get your circulation back and give you a little break. You stay right there where you are though. You don’t get released, just lowered long enough to get ya back into “fightin’ shape,” soldier. Then we go to the next round.”
Round 2
“I think for this one, we’ll add 100 more pounds to that bar for another 20 minutes. Whud d’ya think, Pick? Yer a big, tough guy. You can handle that, right?” I knew the question was rhetorical. “You might even get lucky. The extra weight might help stretch that shirt right out of your jeans bud!”
“This time …I get to help you squirm a little too though.”
“I’m going to ‘wire you up’ with a few of these (he holds up a few electro boxes) Yup, gonna light you up like the town’s Christmas tree, bub! (Then he pulls an old-looking field generator out of the duffle bag) This should get ya dancin’ a little too, huh Dill? A little “cardio” while you’re up there! How’s that sound?”
“If any part of your shirt is still tucked in after the end of this round … after another break to restore circulation in your arms, yer headed back up for the next round. If you manage to squirm enough to completely untuck that shirt of yours though, you’re a free man, and we fire off that 500 bucks to charity.”
Round 3
“This is where we add another 100 pounds to the bar, and Pickleboy becomes a piñata … I get to hit you with things to help ya out, Pick.”
“Again, another 20 minutes.”
“You DO want those shirttails untucked, don’t cha boy? He fakes an evil, wheedling tone in his voice and makes up a little ditty –
“The waves come in. The waves go out.
The waves come IN! The waves go out!”
… and I get the point!
While he’s taunting me verbally, a shiver goes down my spine and I feel my cock spring to life. I found myself feeling the same fear and excitement I remembered feeling on that alien ship. I still wasn’t convinced that episode had actually occurred, but the dread was the same, no matter what … and THIS was happening to me!
I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my “friend.” Where the buddy I thought I knew so well, had disappeared to. Steve had never been quite THIS sadistic, at least not to my knowledge. He loved messing with me, roughhousing like brothers, just doing some humiliating pranks and makin’ bets, of course. Just guy shit! Hazing each other kinda fun, but we BOTH took part in those things in the same masculine, good-natured way against each other, just for ‘shits n’ giggles,’ but it had never been anything like this. Nothing we’d ever done before yesterday’s waterboarding had ever been this fiendishly brutal!
THIS, was different. THIS was going to be real punishment … if not torture. It was clear he planned to make me suffer for him, and I’d accepted his “mystery challenge,” so I had no choice but to go through with it or look like a pussy!
I could see the evil in his plan, and was cursing myself for wearing this particular shirt. The shirttails on it were not only deep-cut and nicely curved, but also longer than some of my other shirts. That meant I was really going to have to fight to try to get them to pull all-the-way out of my jeans. I realized it would likely be easier to get the front of the shirt untucked than the back, but thought I’d be lucky to manage even that. The fucker HAD me! I knew I was pretty screwed, BUT too late now!
“You ready Pick?”
“Ready as I’m gonna be, Ass-wipe!”
To be continued…
