By Pickle

I don’t know how long I was hanging there before I heard the barn door creak open.  I didn’t bother to lift my head.  The sun streaming in behind them cast a bony, elongated shadow of each of the four men, as they each entered single file from the far side of the huge space.  Their shadows were remarkably similar to the shape of the aliens on the ship.  It freaked me out!  Even though I didn’t want to let these guys know I even cared they were coming back to mess with me, my curiosity got the better of me.  I had to sneak a peek. Just to make sure it actually was my buddies that had me in this splayed-out “fix” and not something much more sinister.

Hanging here, I began to wonder if I actually HAD been struck by lightening, however many nights ago it was.  I was half-hoping I was in a coma, and that all of this shit that both Steve, and the aliens had put me through, was just some place, a slightly kinky guy’s brain, like mine, takes him when he’s in that weird medical state.  Part of me wondered, “Am I dead, and this is what eternity will be like?”

I’m left hanging from the posts, and as I dangle there, men begin to enter the barn.  They each have a folding chair with them, and park themselves where they can get a good gander at me, and at the proceedings.

No!  I’ve GOT to be dreaming!  This is just TOO weird.  After several minutes of guys streaming in and forming an audience on one side of me … some I recognized, some I’d never seen in my life … the influx of witnesses seemed to stop.  I’m stuck hanging here in front of all these guys!  How fucking humiliating is this?  I know my face is scarlet with both embarrassment and rage.

My four buddies take up their respective places at each corner post of this contraption.  Steve obviously taking the lead in whatever is about to happen to me … plus Mike, and Tim, and also Chuck, another long-time buddy, that I’d not seen in a dog’s age, cuz we’d both been so busy with our farms.  Chuck lives a bit farther away than the others, so we didn’t get to chum around as much as I would like to.  He’s a fun, easy-going, great-looking guy, with a really terrific sense of humour, and a deep, friendly-sounding laugh. And he laughed often. The guy was great at telling jokes, and entertaining as Hell!  I’m sure he could make life a heck of a lot easier for himself by becoming a comedian and giving up farming.  Chuck is taller than the rest of us even, and really fuckin’ built like a brick shit house.  Blond, blue-eyed, and looked like what you’d think of as a Viking lord.  “So, Dill, ya got yourself in another pickle, huh?” I groan at his line. “Original, Chuckles.  Real original, bud!” Regardless of how bad I thought his pun was, I knew I wanted to impress this hunky behemoth with how well I took whatever they were about to put me through.

Pre-abduction by the aliens … before they “juiced” me, my muscles would have already long since given out while strung up like this, but as tough as this situation the boys have me in is, I’m still doing fine, and feel like I could hold on here for at least another three hours with no problem, as long as things get no worse.

Chuck has never seen me put through anything as tough as the shit Steve’s been testing me with lately, and I find myself wanting to impress the guy.  I realized I no longer thought of Steve as my best buddy, and was thinking maybe Chuck could be a really good upgrade as a best friend.

Dangling here in front of this barn-full of men, I decide I’m going to use whatever the fuck my buddies were about to do to me as a little “audition” to impress the hot “Viking” in the crowd.  And no matter how bad this was going to get, pretend they were all just horsing around with me. Take it like it’s no big deal and laugh it off with them when they eventually let me go.  “Yeah fuck!  Ya got me GOOD, boys!  So whose turn is it to suffer next week?”  A good story for down the road sometime, maybe.  “Remember when we took Pick and strung him up in front of all the guys we knew, and tortured the fuck out of him for them?  Yeah … good times!”

My four buddies began sliding four long 2-by-8’s under me from the front of the structure to the back, resting the ends on crossbeams part-way up between the upright posts.  Once the boards were in place, each man removed weights from the pulley system in his corner.  This had the effect of lowering me down onto my gut on the boards and releasing all the stretch from my limbs.  My arms were still above my head, but it felt pretty comfortable just lying there on my stomach.  All I could think was at least they hadn’t lowered me into the muck in the pool beneath me, though I knew that had to be coming.

This machine seemed to have some sort of locking mechanism on the pulleys, and they were somehow interconnected.  I hear weights being loaded onto each corner and look up to watch Chuck and Steve adding iron plates onto each side, up in front above me.  I know without even bothering to check that Tim and Mike are doing the same thing at my feet.

While the guys were outside drinking my beer, I’d managed to twist around enough to be able to tell the four upright posts were pretty tall.  I guessed at least nine feet high, maybe even ten.  The structure was immense, and I wondered exactly when my buddies had sneaked in and built it.  Just one more thing that didn’t make sense to me anymore.  I’d given up trying to make two plus two equal four these past several days.  They just no longer did.

My entire life had become so surreal that it was easier to not question things anymore.  Just ride it out, and hope I wake up from this awful dream, or whatever was happening to me.  It seemed like I was stuck in one of those nightmares that the harder you fight to wake up, the weirder the dream gets.  I sure as hell didn’t need this to get any stranger, so I decided a while ago to just cowboy up and ride it out.

Steve pushes another wide plank across from one side of this rack-like workout machine to the other.  It passes just beneath the boards I’m lying on.  Once it’s in place, Chuck and Mike take me by the wrists and ankles and roll me over onto my side.  Steve crawls out onto the board he’s just installed and undoes my jeans.  He pulls my nuts out, and I see him attach that same fiendish spiked gizmo he’d put on them while we were on the beach.  Wait!  What?  I thought the aliens had made me hallucinate that that had happened!

With it tightened securely around my ball sack, and the ball chambers pressing tightly on each nut, they each felt like they’d been slammed shut in a miniature version of an Iron Maiden.  Then he did up my jeans again with my balls hanging out of the fly.  With this job completed, he beckoned to Tim, who brought over two, five pound plates.  Steve-O attached them to the chain on the ball torture gadget.

Once he’d concluded these little chores, he reached up and unbuttoned my shirt a few more buttons.  Enough to be able to spread it open and bare my chest.  He tweaked first one nipple, and then the other, several times.  My dick twitched.  Steve continued, pinching, flicking, tickling and sucking each nipple till he had them, and my cock erect.  This accomplished, he took a couple items out of his shirt pocket.  I immediately recognized them as heavy duty tarp clips known as “shark” clips.  They had nasty, biting teeth, and could be screwed down tightly with their teeth interconnecting, so there was no way for the tarp to escape, even in a heavy wind.  I knew where these fuckers were going, and I knew my tits were’t going to escape either!

Steve placed them on each nipple snuggly but not horribly so.  Then he nodded to Chuck.  The two of them rolled me onto my back on the boards and then each took a nipple, and the fucking bastards tightened the clamps down on my nips till I was sure I was going to pass out.  The pain not only seared my fleshy nubs but travelled into my teeth, down the back of my neck, and deep into my guts.  It felt like my nipples were being bitten right off my chest. “FAAAAAWK!!! You mother-fuckin’ cocksuckin’ maggot pussies!”

They both just laughed at my curses, and my predicament.  “Gotta toughen this wimpy little boy up somehow, don’t we Chuck?”  It was the voice I’d grown to hate over the past several days. Chuck then pulled something out of his own shirt pocket and attached them to the end holes in the tarp clips.  “Ya think he can take two and half pounds on each tit, boys?” he said with a hearty laugh, and a big wink at me.

They both crawled off the board they’d used to put me into this present mess, and then pulled it out from underneath the lengthwise boards that were supporting me.  Chuck and Mike then rolled me back over onto my gut again, and I felt my arms pulling a little tighter.  Not stretched taut … just tighter than they’d been while the guys were making these little adjustments to my predicament.

I hear my friends taunting me, and laughing, but my tits are still in so much pain that I’m not really taking in any words, just general guffawing around me.  I’m aware it’s at me, and the situation they have me in. I thought the fellas would likely lower the weights on each corner, to stretch me out enough to lift me off the boards so they could remove them, but instead I feel the boards I’m on, being pulled out from under me, and I receive a few splinters in my chest and gut.  They just let me hang for a few minutes while they continue to joke about my situation.

I guessed the guys were likely going to keep adding more weights, to get me stretched out enough to take me on a ride up to the top of the posts, placing me in a truly evil, excruciating, spread-eagle.  What I wasn’t prepared for, was for Chuck to hit a lever that suddenly released all the weights on the pulleys on each post.  I go flying skyward.  Arms, legs and spine all yanked violently apart.  Gravity makes the weights attached to my balls and my tits immediately heavier as I’m hurtled upward to the top of the machine.

I hear the scream of some horrible banshee.  No … hold on … that was no horrible creature … THAT was me!  Then the weights attached to my nuts and chest become weightless, and then drop again, bouncing a little as my body found it’s stopping point, stretched out more tightly than I’d ever been, at the very top of the machine that the boys had built in my gym.  I might as well have been being pulled apart by four Clydesdales!

I scream again.  I’d never felt such agony.  Even what Steve had done to me hanging by my wrists here a few days ago, paled compared to this horrific pain in my tits and balls, and deep in my guts, from the yank they’d just endured.  Through the tears that had immediately filled my eyes, I look at my chest and crotch, to see if my nipples and junk were still attached to my body.  They’d sure as Hell felt like they’d been ripped right the fuck off, but they were still there and intact.

The audience yelled approval at what had just happened to me.  I hear a chorus of “Yeah, fuckin’ get ’im!” … “Rip ’im apart again!” and the like, from the peanut gallery, who’d obviously been invited there to not only witness my pain, but make it all the worse, from the embarrassment of being tormented in front of them.

I was suspended tightly between the four posts for what seemed an eternity, while Steve, acting as the emcee for the event, talked about how a sloppy fella like Pickle here, looks like he’s the kinda guy who deserves to get a shit-ton of punishment done to him, didn’t they agree?  And how he, Chuck, Tim and Mike decided it ought to be a permanent look for their buddy, Dill, since they thought it just kinda worked on this particular farm boy.  So, they wanted to not only entertain them with this little “show” but wanted to enlist their help, to make sure Dill continues to sport this “country casual” look … permanently!  “You all have our phone numbers, so if you ever catch Pickle here with sleeves on his shirt, or his shirttails tucked-in … report him to one of us.  Text.  Call.  Whatever.  Just report the fucker!  We’ll take care of the rest, and make sure he learns it was a huge fuckin’ mistake if he decides to dress nice an pretty someplace.  The reason we’re all here is Dill’s just gotten a little too big feelin’ and uppity lately, so we want to knock it out of him.  We figure slopping him up like this (he points at me) and forcing him to look like a redneck all the time, no outs, no excuses, no exceptions, EVER … it should at least start knockin’ him down a peg or two.  Take some of the piss out of him.”

This was all just Steve bullshitting for the audience and really meant to humiliate me more than anything else.  I hoped they knew he was just fuckin’ around and wasn’t really serious.  At least I hoped he was just fuckin’ around.  I do like this shirttails-out, cutoff sleeve look, that I’m stuck hanging in here right now, when I figure it’s acceptable, but I’m pretty shy and inhibited about being seen looking like this in the wrong place or situation.

Steve’s little speech served to focus my own attention on how I looked right now.  Hanging here, being pulled apart, wearing the sleeveless army green shirt and jeans.  Weights hanging down from my nipples keeping my shirt opened wide across my chest.  As I looked underneath myself toward my feet I could see my abs tensed and drawn tight … then my deep innie navel that was now extremely elongated from the stretch my torso is in … then my shirttails hanging down almost hiding my totally erect cock and stretched nut sack … and then the chain holding the ten pounds to that spiked fucker on my balls … then onto my well-muscled legs that I knew looked hot in my tight jeans.  I could kind of imagine just how good I looked hanging here like this, to all those fellas who had come to witness this spectacle.  I wondered how the guys had gotten them to come watch this.  Did they all know they were coming to witness me taking this torture?  These guys can’t all be this perverted, can they?  Fuck!  My brain just can’t stop spinning with all the sensations, and input of every type entering it.  Stevie boy, and my other buds had designed this to overload my brain, and it was working.  I just didn’t really know why they were doing it.

Mike and Tim bring me out of my head when they plunk a ladder down at the side of this Russian designed workout machine/torture device.  Mike climbs up and Tim hands him the same board that Steve had used to sit on while he attached weights to me.  Tim crawls partway up, carrying saddlebags.  He hands them to Mike, who lays them across my ass.  Tim then climbs the rungs again, carrying a fifty-pound weight plate, handing it to Mike who places it to my left side.  Tim brings two more fifty-pound plates for Mike and three for himself, to use on my right side.

Once all the accoutrements have been assembled on the board just slightly above my legs, the two guys adjust the saddle bags, making sure they’re centred equally on either side of me, and across my butt cheeks.  In total synchronization they each place their weight plates in the bags.  Three hundred pounds now arching me downward, in an even more tightly stretched, gut-down spread-eagle.

What disease had gotten into my friends?  Was Steve infected with something, and had he infected Tim, Mike and Chuck?  Was this whole audience somehow infected with some kind of bug that made them ALL this sadistic? What the fuck is going on?  Why are they putting me through all this shit?  What’s really going on here?

Suddenly I drop!  Steve had flicked another lever, and it let me fall in a mud-smacking belly flop down deep into the pool of muck underneath me.  I’m submerged totally!  Now I knew the main reason for the weights in the saddle bags.  The extra stretch had just been a bonus for these pricks.

The weight was mainly there to take me down deep into the muck.  I was completely surrounded in this stuff, just as I had been in the gel in the pod on the star ship, if indeed that had actually happened.  That, except for the terror of it, had actually felt comfortable though.  This was cold, clammy and gritty.  I sink deeper. I feel my gut touch the bottom of the pool.  I hold my breath … waiting for my buds to haul me back up out of the thick, gooey quagmire.  I squirm and it oozes around every square inch of my body.  I feel my shirt clinging to my well-built torso.  They’re not pulling me out!  I begin to panic.  Then I feel a voice from somewhere … “Dill, you no longer need to breathe as you used to.  Relax, and allow your body to absorb the oxygen you need from the mud that surrounds you.”

I feel myself being lifted and then a “Thaaaawuck!” from the vacuum created as I’m raised out of the pool of muck.  The ride continues on up to the height I’d been dropped from.  I’m in that incredibly tight, arched stretch again, and left here for the crowd to admire.  I haven’t a clue how long the boys left me submerged, but certainly far longer than I can hold my breath, and that’s a little over two minutes.  Why didn’t I drown in the muck?

Then I hear Steve’s annoying circus barker act again … “Dill thought he was a sloppy fella before, but just look at him now folks!  Now THIS is a sloppy boy!”  The barn is filled with the laughter of at least fifty sadistic males.

Then I’m dropped again!  Sucked under.  Left submerged for God knows how long.  This time I worry less about drowning.  I realize that somehow I’m surviving without breathing.  What the …?  After what seems an eternity I’m pulled out again.  Back to the top of the posts with me … stretched to the limit.  PLOP!  Back down into the muck with a gut-smacking belly flop yet again.

This is repeated so many times I lose track.  Finally it stops.  I’m raised only partway to the top of the posts, and left there to “drip dry.”  The audience folds up their chairs as one entity, and they begin to file past me.  I can feel the gaze of each as they walk by.  At first I don’t look up, but after I feel five or six guys move past my strung up form, I do look.

What I see horrifies me.  They aren’t men!  Not human!  … It’s those horrible bugs from the spaceship.  I quickly look at Chuck and Steve at the two front corners of this machine … I see them shape-shift into the aliens too.  I know without being able to see them that Tim and Mike have transformed as well.

End of Part 11

Metal would like to thank the author, Pickle, for this story! He says he will continue with more chapters when he can write them. I hope it is sooner rather than later!