By Pickle
Steve takes the winch’s control in hand and with a short “whirrrr” has me a few inches off the floor. Just enough for the 200 pounds on the bar to pull my body apart a little and put some real pressure on my wrists and hands. I wondered if he was going to leave me this close to the ground for the whole first round.
“It’s kinda like when you lose a tooth and you can’t keep yer tongue away from the empty space, huh Dill? When a guy’s toes are this close to the ground, he can’t help but try to reach it with his toes. Even when you know that, with the psychological effect of nearly being able to touch it, you just can’t help yourself. Isn’t that right, Pickle? Real waste of energy though soldier! ‘Conserve energy.’ That’s one of the first lessons ya learn when you’re put through SERE Training, Dilly boy.” He added a sneer to the “Dilly boy” that time, in a way that I knew he was going to make me pay for calling him an “ass-wipe.”
“Like I said, I’ve always really loved this shirt on ya, Pick. It’s got a real military flair to it, even minus the sleeves. Every time I’ve seen it on ya it makes me want to put ya through a little uh, shall we call it, ‘Resistance Training.’ I’ve been wanting to see what you’re really made of for a long time my friend!” He sounded menacing as Hell on the word “friend”!
“Since you’ve been so curious about what I used to do in the military, I thought I’d give you a little demo, my boy. I used to do this as part of my work Pick. And I thoroughly enjoyed my work!”
“I was a Drill Instructor for a while, my specialty was SERE, and I fuckin’ LOVED the “R” part of that especially. I was extremely good at training young fellas to take diabolical little tortures from various parts of the World. Gotta prepare ’em. Toughen ’em up! It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it, right?”
“A guy can always hang on longer if he’s had a pretty good taste of what he might be in for if he’s ever captured. A soldier’s psychological make-up, as well as his physical build and strength comes into play, and if you can give him some preparation for what he’s going to be put through, he’s at least a little ahead of the game. Too bad for you, you haven’t had that training, huh Pickle?”
Those words made me start to struggle a little and Steve flashed a big grin at me and chuckled. “Awww, yer gonna have to try harder than that now, soldier”
When he mentioned the psychological shit, it made me wonder if the incredible sexual fun we’d had yesterday after my “waterboarding” on the beach was more to fuck with my head than my body. It had been an amazing time. He was just the right combination of rough and tender for my taste, and he sure as fuck wasn’t bad to look at, or touch! He was all muscle, kind of a Tom of Finland type body on him.
I have to say, even though I would never have done it to him, or anyone else, I’d had perverted daydreams of locking him into one of the yokes in a cow stall, pushing his head down onto the leaver that allows water to seep into the bowl, holding his face into it and waterboarding him a little before leaving him to sweat it out in the cattle yoke for a bit, before coming back, ripping his pants down, and fucking the living shit out of him. Guess he got to carry out HIS waterboarding procedure first.
I was brought out of this little reverie when Steve approached me and stood about a foot from my face. “So Pick, in the military, during Resistance Training, if a young buck called me names, I’d give him a demerit point or two. Buddy, … I wonder … are you gonna need that dude?”
That seemed like a challenge to me, and I’ve always been a bit of a smart-ass, so I said, “What do YOU think, you pussy-faced, fucked-up piece of maggot shit!” I said it with a cocky grin, and he knew I was half-teasing him, and half asking for it.
“Alright Dill! We can play it that way if ya want buddy boy.” He winked. “Let’s see how ya feel about another 100 pounds on that bar before I hike ya up to the rafters!” He added them to the bar. “You just won yourself 300 pounds in your first round, bro! Let’s see how ya deal with that, tough guy!”
With that, he clicked the control, and I started to rise up toward the ceiling of my workout barn. He only took me up about five feet off the ground. “I wanna be able to enjoy watching you squirm, boy! Alright Dill, timer starts …” He paused … “NOW! … Do yer best, Pick. Let’s see ya get that shirt untucked dude!”
As soon as he had put the extra 100 pounds on the barbell I knew I was well and truly fucked! Even with these great suspension cuffs I immediately felt more pressure on the heel of my thumb. I began to feel my body pulling slightly apart too.
I noticed how it pulled on my shoulders and armpits first, and then I noticed how my ribs were opening up along my sides, and then how my chest was feeling like it was pulling away from the upper part of my rib cage, and my rib cage from my hips. I felt like a live demonstration of that old song, and it started going through my head, “the leg bone’s connected to the … thigh bone” etc. I couldn’t remember many of the words, but it became a torturous ear worm, with the same words repeating over and over in my brain.
After the first few minutes of hanging there, I started imagining all my joints and tendons beginning to pull apart … shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, knees! Fuck me! This is 300 goddamned pounds, and Steve said he was going to add another hundred in each successive round. He might as well have been stretching me out on a Medieval rack!
“C’mon you fuckin’ asshole, get this extra weight off me dude. This isn’t funny. I’m gonna wind up in the emergency room if you don’t let me down soon, man!”
“Keep THAT up and you will, ‘recruit!’ We’re gonna see if you’ve got what it takes to be a Special Forces soldier today, Fuckwad!” Then the “whirrr” of the winch again, and I was being lowered. The weight plates hit the cement floor with a clank, and my entire body felt the relief of the stretch being taken off of it.
“‘Fuckin’ asshole,’ huh dude? Well, I guess we’ll hafta see about that, won’t we Pick? Ya know what? I’m gonna show ya what a nice guy I am. Think I’ll give ya a little head start, soldier. I really do prefer ya a little more sloppy than this, so I’m gonna give ya a little head start.” With this said, he pulled the right front part of my shirttails out of my jeans. “Yeah, that’s much better. Now ya look a little more boyishly charming. Like a young buck who just can’t seem to keep his shirt tucked-in and doesn’t give a shit how he looks. Gotta say, yer looking’ kinda hot like that, Dill! That’s a real good look on ya, boy!”
“Well, maybe I’m not such a nice guy. Ya did kinda insult me with that “fuckin’ asshole thing after all. I think ya deserve a little somethin’ for that one, Pickle.”
He loads another two plates onto the bar and starts my ride back up. “Maybe another hundred will teach ya a little respect, Dildo!”
I always hated it when he impishly used that wordplay on my name. He knew it got to me and always used it on me when he knew it would piss me off the most. I wanted to retort, but I now had 400 friggin’ pounds pulling my body apart. As muscular as I was, I didn’t know just how much weight a guy’s body could tolerate pulling on him, and for how long, so thought I’d better play this at least a little smart.
I knew he’d designed this challenge to make me struggle and squirm as much as possible, and that he would enjoy watching my body writhe while trying to win it. I really didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, but knew I had to try to get out of this situation. With this much weight hanging from my lower legs there wasn’t a Helluva lot of “squirming” I could do though.
It struck me that IF I could get myself swinging, it would make my life temporarily worse, in that the weight would pull on my body even more, but I thought it was the only chance I had, and worth a shot. When I managed to lift my knees just enough to start a small swing going, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for never skipping leg day! I thought if at the top of the swing my body could bend at the waist enough, I MIGHT manage to get these god-damned shirttails untucked.
I worked till I got a fairly good swing going, and I could feel my body stretch a bit more on both the fore and back swings each time. I felt a little less weight as my body swung down from the top of each arc … only as the direction changed though. It fooled gravity just long enough for me to add a squirm into the mix. I hoped it would be enough!
“Ah! That’s smart, Pick! About the only thing you can do with 400 pounds hanging from ya. I’m almost impressed you managed to come up with that and get that swing goin’. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like you’re having much luck with your shirttails there! Can’t even see any bare skin at your sides. You can ‘give’ now if ya want, Dill, but of course, there’s extra-fun consequences for ya if ya tap out early on me dude. Even more ‘fun’ than yesterday! Gotta make things a little more special for a fella if he wimps out early, now don’t we?”
I recalled the sea-side waterboarding from the day before, and thought there was no way in Hell I was going to let myself in for anything worse than that. No way in Hell was I going to give my evil buddy the satisfaction of wimping out early on this challenge either. I had to find it in myself to hang tough, literally!
I keep making myself swing as much as I can, but it takes a ton of energy and muscle trying to keep all this added weight moving, so I decide to see if maybe gravity will just eventually do the work for me on its own.
Once the pendulous movement stops, I allow myself to just hang for a while. It felt friggin’ Medieval, but I had to admit, part of me was kinda liking it. I liked showing Steve I was tough enough to take this, and I even had to confess I kinda liked knowing that I was gonna be displayed all over our social media being put through this little test. Steve was putting me “on display,” and there wasn’t a fuckin’ thing I could do about it, so I might was well suck it up and enjoy it.
I couldn’t believe my friend of more than six years was doing this to me. What I went through the previous day was on the verge of torture, but THIS! This IS fuckin’ real torture. I wanted to call Steve every name in the book, but knew I didn’t dare. He was pretending this was good-natured, guy fun, but there was a seriousness about him today that told me he meant business. He wasn’t fuckin’ around.
It felt like a friggin’ eternity before my friend, the guy who had been my “lover” the day before, lowered me to the barn floor. Both relief, and a certain amount of fear swept though me as I was being lowered. Nearly there! Nearly able to touch the floor. I could tell my weighted legs were getting close to the starting point. Then … I stopped. Had the winch jammed? Nope! The bastard stopped me just before the weights hit the ground.
“Easier to check things out this way, Dill.” He looked me up and down. “Nope! Still half-tucked-in up front.” He took me by my right thigh and turned me and examined that side. “Nope! Still tucked in on this side.” Then another quarter turn (I knew the act of turning me was to give me the feeling of his power over me) and I could feel him looking me over.
“Nope, Dilly boy, still tucked in in back here too, fucker!” Then he let me spin back to facing front and turned me once again the opposite way to examine my left side. “Nope, looks like this ‘lucky contestant’ is advancing to the second round, buddy boy. You look entirely too neatly dressed for a farm boy, Pick. We’re just gonna have to find a good way to make a sloppier fella outta ya somehow now aren’t we, soldier!” With that, he gave me one helluva hard but friendly slap on the left shoulder and then lowered me till my feet were blessedly on the floor again.
He kept the winch lowering me till my arms were down by my sides. “No cheating now, Pickleboy, that won’t go well for ya if you try to sneak in a tug on your shirt there bud.” I had suffered enough in this first round I didn’t want to risk ticking him off, so I behaved myself.
To be continued …
