By Chained Muscle

This story was written by Kronmire and illustrated by Amalaric

Colton Murray wiped his dripping brow as he paused in the back-breaking labor of lifting yet another bale of spring hay into the barn loft of his family farm. Just the thought of “family farm” made him wince — his mother had remarried Les Caldwell just a year before her own death from cancer. Now the farm belonged to his stepfather, and since the trust set up by his mother with a large fund for his schooling was also under Caldwell’s control, Colt had to obey the stern, unloving man at least until he turned 25.

Any opposition to his stepdad’s commands resulted in severe punishment — of the physical character. Shirtless in the hot barn, clad only in jeans and boots, the boy was a marvel of physical perfection — short-cropped blond hair, vivid blue eyes, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, his golden torso the object of many glances from the girls at his high school. Colt had just turned 19, but he was forever forgetting some rule or other of his stepfather — and that made the boy particularly nervous about this coming evening. Always before, the sadistic Caldwell had punished the boy in this same barn — but alone, without any witnesses. Tonight was to be different, and Colt remembered the hard knot in his stomach beneath those perfect abs, when “Dad” (as Caldwell insisted upon being called) had first told him about his plans.

Les Caldwell was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee as his stepson was working — and musing — and worrying — out in the barn.

He knew the boy would be tied up in a fevered sweat just anticipating how the coming disciplinary session would turn out. Little did the lad know just how much more he would be experiencing than the man had led him to understand. Caldwell chuckled to himself, knowing that his handsome, athletic stepson would be shocked out of his young mind when the guests arrived for this session. He had told the boy that certain farmers would be dropping by to observe his punishment methods but he hadn’t disclosed just who they would be — the fathers of several of his school friends, all of whom the youth knew — the humiliation would be excruciating. Always in the past, too, he had punished Colt with the strap or the paddle or the cane — always over his tightly stretched briefs. But this night would be a first, and he laughed out loud, knowing just how much Colton’s fine image of youthful manhood would suffer!

Promptly at seven o’clock the four neighbors arrived at Caldwell’s barn. Les welcomed them in — there was Brent Potter, the nearest neighbor and father to another strapping school fellow of Colt’s; then there was Elliott Pratt, who ran the country cotton exchange — one of his sons was also Colt’s age and a frequent visitor to the farm here; next came Dave Blackert, who although he lived nearby on a small horse-raising spread, was Colt’s high school track coach; and finally, Martin Byron, the neighbor to the west — his daughter was smitten with Colt, and her brother was the boy’s best friend. Yes, a good group for this session. Clearing his throat, Les called out for the men to settle down in chairs he had set up in the middle of the barn close to the exposed beam from which iron shackles now dangled — but the visitors were oblivious to them. All they knew was that Colt had misbehaved in some way and that Caldwell wanted them to see his disciplinary techniques. All of the men had discussed from time to time the present state of “teenage rebellion,” and Les had often pointed out that he had no trouble whatsoever keeping his stepson in line — they wanted to see just what his secret to obedience might be. Caldwell looked at his watch and noticed that it was almost half past seven. He called out: “Okay, neighbors — it’s almost time for the event you’ve been waiting for. Could you take your seats please! Oh yes, bring your beer with you!” The guests chuckled and took their places in the row of four seats while Caldwell turned on some spotlights that illuminated the area beneath the exposed beam.

As a far-off clock struck the half hour, just in time (as he knew he had to be), the barn door opened and Colt stepped into the room. He was wearing a terry robe, his bare legs and feet noticeable under its hem. The bright light kept the boy from noting the guests at first, and he followed his stepdad’s earlier strict instructions to mount the wooden low bench placed beneath the beam, facing the spectators. Caldwell strode up beside him and barked out: “Disrobe, boy! No backtalk!” Trembling as he fumbled with the robe’s belt, Colt thought he heard a couple of gasps from the unseen guests in front of him as he threw the garment off and stood on the bench wearing only his white cotton briefs. His stepfather grabbed the boy’s left wrist and stretched it upward to fasten into one of the metal shackles; he performed the same operation with the right wrist. When that was done Caldwell stretched the boy’s legs apart and tied them to eyelet bolts drilled six feet apart in the wooden bench. Now Colt was spreadeagled, his body sweating with fear as he knew the inexorable punishment to follow. But what he did not know was the identity of his new audience — until now. Flicking a switch Caldwell caused a small row of lights to light up the rest of the barn — as his eyes focused on the four men in the front row of seats, Colt blushed crimson and hung his head to avoid meeting the eyes of his friends’ dads. He stammered out, “Dad, please no, don’t punish me in front of these men! Please, I’m begging you!” His facial blush spread down the captive boy’s neck and upper bare chest, the smooth skin’s natural golden color tinged now with red.

“Nonsense, boy! You left that corral gate open yesterday, and we had to chase down two horses for an hour. You deserve what you’re going to get, and these men are here to witness you and your humility.” Caldwell turned then to the men in the audience, a couple of them with mouths open — none had expected that the boy would be chained up like an animal! Les said, “Men, there is no excuse for coddling boys who break the rules! And now let us begin!” Picking up a long wide leather strap and taking it by its wooden handle, Caldwell crossed behind his near-naked captive stepson and began to lay on stroke after stroke across the youth’s bare, muscular shoulders and upper back. The sting of each blow brought tears to Colt’s eyes, and his whole body shook with the force of his stepfather’s strokes. After ten of them, his back, although unscarred, was red from the force used, and his torso and legs ran with hot sweat as the lad tried in vain to control his cries. With another ten blows Les relaxed and put down the strap. The neighbors were transfixed as they gazed upon the exhausted boy hanging limply but still conscious from the beam. All four were surprised by their feelings arising — and arousing — from this vicious scene of father-son discipline.

But before the guests were able to speak and had started to rise from their chairs, Les Caldwell interrupted and shouted at them, “Not so fast, gentlemen. I’m not done with Colt just yet.”

The sweaty boy raised his head and fixed his stepdad with a look of terror — “Please, please, Dad. I’ll do whatever you want. NO MORE, PLEASE!” This last was said with a plaintive shriek, and he looked longingly for mercy at the faces of the fathers of his friends. One by one, each guest lost his own look of shock and dismay, only to be replaced by one of evil desire. Just by searching their eyes Colt knew that his doom was just beginning.

The illustrated story above is presented here courtesy of Chained Muscle. Used with permission.

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