Tormented By Thousands

Reposted from the Nifty Archive
From: Peter Rodman
Subject: Tormented By Thousands

“It’s time.” I hear you say the fateful words I’ve come to dread that doom
me to all-too-soon-to-come immersion in some kind of extremely unpleasant
(and that’s putting it mildly), intense pain experience. Words like agony,
suffering, screaming, misery, endurance, and survival flood my mind.

We’ve just had our lunch. As sometimes happens — but not always — I’ve
eaten this meal out of a bowl on the floor like a dog in accordance with
your wish.

I can still taste the last remnants of the huge, delicious load you just
shot off into my lucky, eager mouth as I vigorously and aggressively —
just the way you like, want, and expect it — sucked you off after the
lunch meal. By now I’ve learned very well, too, that I dare not spill,
drop, or waste one single drop of your precious nectar — since the
consequence of that mistake is an immediate and swift kick forcefully
delivered to my balls — sometimes several such extremely painful blows,
not just one. I’m also in big trouble if I leave any behind and don’t
completely and thoroughly drain your body of ev’ry last bit of cum that’s
in it at the time of a suck off. Your dedication to your responsibility to
enhance and improve my active cocksucking and passive face
fucking-recipient skills and abilities is admirable. Unless I’m in too bad
of shape because I’m in recovery mode from what I’ve endured in a recent
pain training session, your fabulous cock usually feeds me several times a
day. And if recuperation is the case you take the time to jack yourself off
and collect the cum — often using a condom with an extra large reservoir
at the end — and then generously feed it to me. Or else you add it as a
special ingredient to whatever other regular food I’m having, since healthy
doses of this special white fluid that’s such an essential essence of your
male being should definitely promote quicker healing.

Actually sucking your amazing and wonderful big dick is not a chore, not
something I’m forced to do, grudgingly or in fear and reluctance. At the
most basic level, essentially I hunger, crave, lust, and live for your
cock. I love and adore your delicious dick and could worship and savor it
and your hefty balls with my knowing mouth ev’ry single day for hours on
end. It’s an honor, privilege, blessing, reward, and treat to suck you off
and swallow your cum, and I willingly and happily do so with gusto,
enthusiasm, and gratitude. I’m so fortunate to get to do it. If you didn’t
let me suck your cock that’d be real punishment — but I sense you enjoy
and appreciate the stimulation it gets when your hard dick’s in my mouth,
and that’s a point in my favor — along with the fact that I never fail to
shower the lavish oral attention they so richly deserve upon your marvelous
balls as well.

And regarding the subject of me eating cum, once again as I blew you after
lunch you mentioned the plan of setting things up so I’d go for two entire
weeks consuming only cum and drinking nothing but water. Except for the
time that I’d be asleep, I’d spend all my waking moments — all those
hours each day — actively at work getting the one single item in my new
diet directly out of its source. It fits right in with the Puritan work
ethic, expending personal energy for the reward of the food you eat at your
meals — but my feasting in this case would be continuous without letup. I
doubt I could spend all that time on my knees only, so I guess I’d need to
rotate through various sucking positions. It’d be a scientific
experiment. Would I lose weight or not? Would I need to take vitamins and
minerals and other supplements? How many loads of cum in a day would be
necessary to leave me not feeling hungry? Would it be possible to suck off
that many dicks in one day? At what rate would I have to take them on —
five minutes each? To get to as many dicks as possible to consume as much
cum as possible, I can’t spend too much time with any one man. You’ve
mentioned the idea of wrapping a wire around my balls and giving me painful
electric shocks if I haven’t swallowed all of a guy’s cum within five
minutes. Probably the greatest challenge that stands in the way of this
scenario really happening is simply finding enough hung, horny,
constantly-producing-cum studs available at the same place to supply the
cum and making the scheduling arrangements. That’s a helluva lot of dicks
to locate to suck in just one day, much less doing it for two weeks. If I
drained a guy in the morning would he have made enough fresh cum for it to
be worth it for me to suck the same man off again in the evening — and
could I get it out of him within five minutes? Would they be cum-donating
volunteers or would they be paid for their services? Would I need to be
blindfolded or man a glory hole? Would some men only participate if it was
anonymous — especially straight men? Would we have to advertise to get
men on board? There’re so many factors to consider — it would entail a
great deal of work. It might be easier to head for a big university in a
large city and hit up the fraternities. Would it be better for giving all
that head to head for a city known for having a large and active gay male
population, like San Francisco? It wouldn’t be easy to make it happen, but
I love the idea. I’m certainly game and up for giving it a try if the
details and logistics can ever be worked out — all for the ultimate glory
of science, of course. After all, someone has to do it, I guess, and I’m
willing to buckle down and make the sacrifice.

Usually my training sessions in your special basement room start in the
late afternoon or after dinner, so I’m a little surprised at your
announcement coming at this time of the day. But on the other hand, when it
comes to your methods, “expect the unexpected” would be an appropriate
motto to keep in mind.

“Put your sneakers on,” you tell me, “and nothing else.” The regular state
of affairs in your presence, of course, is for me to lack any article of
clothing whatsoever that could possibly conceal any part of my body. But I
do routinely wear a leather collar around my neck, and leather straps are
almost always found tightly secured around both my wrists and each
ankle. Each strap and the collar has a strong piece of round metal firmly
attached to it — with a double-looped S-clasp it’s convenient to hook
that circle of metal in a limb strap to a chain, and similarly quite easy
to hook a leash to the collar. Overall this system takes you a lot less
time to restrain me in any configuration you might wish than using ropes
would.

At the moment you’re fully clothed, which also isn’t normal when we’re
having a session — another clue that this isn’t going to be ordinary.

“Put your hands out in front of you,” is the next order, given once my feet
are no longer bare. And with a clasp you secure my hands together at the
wrist straps.

“We’re going on a trip in the car,” you say as you hook the leash to my
collar. “And you won’t need any clothes where we’re going.”

You lead me through a door into the garage and have me get into the back
seat of your four-wheel drive SUV. Then you place a blindfold over my eyes
and tell me to lie down on the floor so strangers in other vehicles won’t
notice me.

The garage door opens, you back out, shut the door with the remote, and
we’re off. I’m very nervous — once again, I’m getting a bad feeling about
all this.

I lose track of time, but it seems like there’s less and less outside world
traffic noise as we keep traveling. Maybe after an hour I notice a change
in the feel of things. There haven’t been any other vehicles near us for
quite a while, and now we leave regular pavement and then seem to be
driving on gravel — it definitely slows us down. After what seems like
quite a bit of that things shift again — the gravel’s gone and we’re on a
dirt road. It’s very bumpy and progress is slow.

Finally we’re there, wherever it is. Perhaps and hour and a half or maybe
even two hours have passed since we left the house. Obviously we’re
somewhere remote and isolated (“off the beaten path”). That means there’ll
be no danger of anyone hearing me scream and you won’t have to gag me. —
unless you yourself become fed up and disgusted with the excessive
noise. My ability to endure the severe pain I suffer at your hands in stoic
silence the way a man should is extremely limited, rather sad, and in
reality almost non-existent, or at least very minimal and short-lived. I
always start off with a resolute plan of taking whatever you dish out like
a man, but I can never seem to hold out for very long before I lose it and
my resolve is gone.

You open the back of the SUV and take out what I later learn is a
medium-sized wagon loaded with the various items you need. You secure my
leash to the back of the wagon that you’re pulling and we set off along a
path. I’m still blindfolded, but the terrain is basically flat, if a bit
rocky, and it isn’t too hard to follow sightless without stumbling. It’s
sunny and warm out — a nice day.

After about ten minutes of walking we’ve apparently finally reached the
place you want to be, and at last the blindfold comes off.

The full sun is rough on my eyes for a few minutes, but finally I can focus
and take a good look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere, in an open
field, mostly dirt. There are a few large oak trees around, but not many.

It seems quite normal that you have on sunglasses, but I am surprised to
see that you have a rake, of all things, in one hand. But by now I know
better than to ask why. Soon enough I’ll find out what it’s there for, and
it’s a no-brainer to realize that in some manner it’s going to help me be
uncomfortable.

“A good friend of mine owns this land,” you tell me. “It’s private property
— and he’s happy to let me use it. When he can, he tries to be present
to watch the fun, but he couldn’t make it today — too bad.” In the
distance, not too far away — maybe several hundred yards — I can see
what’s either a small lake or perhaps a large pond.

“Damn,” you say unexpectedly. “I should have waited and had you suck me off
for your lunch dessert when we got here. I don’t get enough outdoor blow
jobs. Yeah, you could do it again now, but I haven’t had enough time to
make a fresh load of cum, and without that it wouldn’t be as rewarding for
either of us. Oh well. Remind me next time, though, to hold off on your
liquid protein snack `till we’re here. And rest assured, there will be a
next time.”

I don’t say back what I immediately think — that I can’t remind you if
you don’t tell me in advance what we’re going to be doing, and that never
seems to happen. If I said anything about that now you’d figure I was being
a smartass and kick me in the balls for it — some things I have indeed
learned the hard way by now — so I keep my mouth shut. Of course, maybe
when we start to repeat pain experiences you’ll tell me a day ahead of time
so I can brood and agonize about it mentally — fret and stew over it and
get myself all worked up — for an entire day and night before it
happens. Knowing you, you’re bound to do something a little different when
a pain training session is repeated to take it to a new level and make it
even worse than it was the first time. Since the second and even subsequent
times beyond that I won’t be a total novice to experiencing whatever it is,
you’ll expect me to handle it at a more severe and intense level.

“Come this way,” you tell me, heading in the opposite direction of the
water, still pulling the wagon with one hand while the other carries the
rake. “I want to show you something truly unique and special — something
you don’t see ev’ry day.”

You soon stop and let me get a good look at what’s before us. I’m shocked
and stunned by what I see, and massive waves of fear and immense panic
quickly overtake me.

On the ground directly in front of us in the sun is a very large ant colony
with countless numbers of small red ants actively scrambling around. And
four large, heavy-looking stakes with short chains attached to their ends
have been driven into the ground at the periphery of the nest. The location
and distance apart of the stakes clearly indicate they’ve been optimally
placed for a man to lie between them — with his body trunk in the exact
center of the ant nest — with his limbs maximally spread and of course
secured to the stakes. I instinctively shudder at the very thought of that
happening to anyone.

“Pretty impressive, huh?” you casually chatter away, in just the right tone
to inspire terror and unease. “These are actually imported red fire ants.
They’re often mistaken for another savage species, the dangerous Southern
fire ant — but these are even more aggressive and fierce. When they’re
threatened, attacked, or angry they’re positively ferocious.”

You set the rake down and retrieve a glass jar from the wagon, stopping to
quickly scoop several ants into it. “Let’s take a close up look,” you say
as you bring the bottle to my face. They do indeed look impressively
threatening, wicked, and menacing.

“As ants go these are medium-sized ones. Not the little teeny ones, and
not as big as some others. I’ve done a lot of research on the topic, and
there are damned few other kinds of ants to be found anywhere as nasty,
sinister, and downright unpleasant as these little buggers can be. Watch
this.”

From an already opened pack of hot dogs (or franks, or wieners, or
frankfurters, or whatever you want to call them) you drop a piece of a raw
one into the jar. The five or six ants imprisoned there are instantly on
top of it, and I can see them immediately and repeatedly biting into the
meat. My heart sinks with dread as I realize I’m going to be the next meal
for thousands of these ants. And once again I marvel at your ability to
continually find something new to do to me that produces even more pain
than whatever happened the previous time, when I clearly believed nothing
could be worse than what I was experiencing then. You’re always proving me
wrong about that. I ought to have learned by now — no matter how bad I
think it is, it can and will be even worse the next time.

“Let’s do a little experiment,” you say, tossing the ant-covered hot dog
bit out of the jar. From the wagon you get out and set a small, still
mostly folded tarp on the ground and then place on top of it a plastic
squeeze container of honey and tubes of both Bengay and IcyHot.

“Ever use either one of these?” you say, referring to the tubes, without
waiting for an answer. “They’re supposed to be for sore, aching, strained
muscles — you rub the stuff on your skin over where it hurts and it
penetrates deep to make you feel better. I’m not sure how effective they
really are used that way — but if you rub it on without sore muscles
often it burns and stings.”

As you speak you’re at work coating an entire hot dog with honey, one with
Bengay, and one with IcyHot. You also get one out and leave it as is.

“Which one do you think the ants’ll like best?” You pause. I’m still
speechless.

“I asked you a question — answer!” you bark at me.

“Uh — the honey, I guess” I dully mumble back.

And with long-handled tongs you carefully place each hot dog with its meat
down on the ground in the center of the ant colony, muttering “we’ll see
soon enough” as you do it. “If I had the time to pursue it, I think it’d be
fun to come up with my own home recipe for something that would attract the
ants in droves and drive them to relentlessly go after what they see as a
threat even better than anything store bought.”

Instantly the ants are massively attacking the foreign invaders. And in
only a moment it’s apparent more are drawn to the honey-covered hot dog
than the plain one, but the two with the Bengay and IcyHot are totally
obliterated with hordes of angry ants going after them with impressive
determination.

You keep speaking — in my mind I’ve come to think of these vocal
diatribes as “scare talks” — generating psychological terror. They’re
highly effective, particularly with the different tones of voice and
inflections you use — you’re quite good at this. I try to give myself
counteracting, encouraging pep talks in my mind at such times, but I’m
unable to tune out and avoid hearing what you’re saying.

“You know, when a bee stings you it’s a one time deal. A bee can only zap
you one time and then it dies. But these nasty little monsters — why,
they just keep biting you and biting you and biting you — again and again
— nonstop. People call them fire ants `cause it burns so badly when one
of them gets a taste of you — a lot of people get blisters from it as
well. Just think of the damage and agony hundreds or even thousands at
work at once can do.”

You pause to let that sink in before continuing. “In many native American
tribes — both in North and South America — as part of the rite of
passage from boyhood to becoming a warrior, a young adult male would lie
down on top of an ant pit and remain there for several hours, enduring the
pain of the ritual ordeal as a solemn test of manhood and bravery. And he’d
do it without making a sound, without needing to be tied down, and without
moving. Those men had greater mental powers than we do now — they
probably went into some sort of self-induced trance that helped them get
through it.”

You take a breath before going on. “Sometimes, of course, they’d tie an
unfortunate captured enemy warrior or white settler over a bunch of ants
and leave him there for hours and hours as a form of torture — sometimes
coating his entire body with honey. Most Indians could take the pain with
some degree of bravery, but a white man would be screaming his head off —
the same way I’m sure you will soon as well. And sometimes an unfortunate
victim would remain under attack by the ants however long it took for him
to die. Just how horrible that might really be — and how long it might
take for death — would depend on the kind of ants involved. But with
enough time even milder ones can collectively kill a man who can’t get
away. Of course you won’t be in contact with these ants that long — it’ll
just seem like it. These are badass ants — very bad.”

You get the tongs out and retrieve the hot dogs and fling them away. “Looks
like you were wrong — they like the muscle medicine more than the
honey. I don’t know why. I can’t see much difference, though, between the
Bengay and IcyHot in how they’re drawn to the stuff. So I guess we’ll use
IcyHot on you today and try Bengay the next time we do this. Remember that
in case I forget later,” you instruct me.

Your next move surprises me. You get out a hard cover book and a die. “I’m
gonna roll this die now,” you say, “to see how many successive
fifteen-minute periods you’ll be spending with your numerous newfound
friends.” You toss it on the surface of the book — the result: a four.
“Not bad,” you continue, ” one full hour for you and the mean little
critters to get to intimately know one another — and you will.”

Then you stop to rummage around a bit in the wagon and produce several more
tubes of IcyHot. “Step over here and take off your shoes,” you command, so
I do after you free my hands. Then you proceed to liberally coat certain
parts of my body with a thick layer of the cream substance. My cock and
balls are totally covered, and you make sure to get it into my crack as
well. You work your way upward and hit my navel, pecs, nips, and arm
pits. Just as you said, it basically stings and isn’t very
pleasant. Finally you produce a set of tight-fitting goggles, the kind a
swimmer or a skier would wear. “This’ll keep `em out of your eyes,” you
tell me as they go on. “Anywhere else is fair game for the nasty little
buggers.”

I’m standing terrified and feeling more upset, ill at ease, and
uncomfortable now than I think I’ve been with anything else you’ve done to
me so far — this seems so incredibly diabolical and evil. You grab the
rake and look directly at me. “Watch this,” you tell me as you roughly
scrape it over the dirt on top of the ant colony. “This gets them super
angry — really mad — sets `em on the warpath.” Indeed, hordes of ants
race up from below in attack mode to defend their home ground.

“OK — you know where your place is now,” you calmly tell me. “Let’s get
started. Lie down on top of the ants and spread your arms and legs close to
the stakes.”

I’m absolutely helpless — numb, panic-stricken, and paralyzed by my
intense fear. I stare almost in disbelief, and then start slowly shaking my
head from side to side — you must be out of your mind to think I’m going
to go along what you just told me to do. “No,” I finally quietly say. “I
can’t do this. No way. This is too much — it’s suicidal. Let me go,” are
the words that come out of my mouth. And then I take some steps backwards
away from the ant nest.

You explode in a fury of rage. I’ve never seen you so angry. “Who the hell
are you to say no? I gave you an order! You goddamn miserable son of a
bitch — you dare to think you can defy me! I am in control here. You have
no choice in this matter. You can and will do this. Your behavior is
outrageous and intolerable. You’ll be punished for this – severely.”

In a powerful whirlwind of motion, you roughly grab my collar — yanking
hard on it, you start dragging me toward the ants. “I was in a good mood
and thinking of taking fifteen minutes off your time with the ants if you
were enough of a man to accept your fate with some dignity and not beg for
it not to happen. Now you’re gonna be privileged to spend an additional
half hour with these fierce fire ants — as much as you may think it will,
it won’t kill you, but you’ll be damned miserable, that’s for sure. Well,
that’s just the start — there’ll be more extremely harsh punishment of
another kind to commence as soon as you finish with the ants! You’ve
foolishly made a huge mistake and you’re gonna regret it dearly. When I
start in on you after the ants you’ll soon be begging for death rather than
have it continue — and, of course, it will continue, without letup until
completion. And remember, if — or when, that is — you pass out, the
punishment starts up from where it left off when I’ve revived you. There’s
no escape.”

In very little time you have me where you want me — I’m still dazed and
in shock as you throw me down on the ant-infested ground with impressive
strength and start securing my limbs to the stakes. Much as I wish I could
and want to, I have no ability to stop you.

“It’ll be interesting to see how long you scream before you can’t do it any
more. Either you’ll realize it’s a complete waste of your energy and the
exact opposite of being a real man about this, or your vocal cords’ll give
out and you’ll reach a point where you simply can’t scream any longer —
you’ll try to and go through the motions but no sound will emerge.”

As you work you continue speaking in a tone still filled with immense
anger. “God I wish there was some way to make your dick get hard and keep
it that way — then there’d be a larger surface area for the ants to be
biting.”

Well satisfied with the result, you step back, your task complete — I’m
chained to the stakes and the ants are streaming all over me, biting me
everywhere nonstop and repeatedly, really going to town, seemingly
everywhere all at once. They’re especially concentrating in huge numbers on
the parts of me covered with the IcyHot.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you say laughingly. “If you can will yourself to
get a full boner and keep it up for five minutes I’ll set you free.” We
both know that’s utterly impossible.

Immediately after your last word the first one of my countless and
seemingly endless piercing, long-lasting, shrill screams fills the air. I
surprise even myself, not knowing I had it in me to make such a dramatic
sound of despair and agony.

I can hardly believe the casual stance you take now as you set up a beach
umbrella and unfold a lawn chair beneath it. You open a cooler and take the
cap off a beer bottle and settle down with the book you brought. You also
get out a timer and set it, telling me “your hour and a half starts now —
enjoy.” That wagon clearly carries a lot of items.

In no time I’m writhing in immense pain. I’m desperate, delirious, shouting
between constant bone-chilling, blood-curdling, wake-the-dead screams,
trying to move my body enough to throw the ants off (which really can’t be
done), sobbing, heaving, gasping, crying (so much that the eye goggles are
soon flooded with copious tears), shaking, trembling, begging, pleading,
blubbering. I blurt out things like: “no more” — “please, please! let me
go” — “make them stop!” — “oh god it hurts so much!” — “stop this!”
— “they’re killing me” — and on and on I go with these pathetic verbal
outbursts.

And all my screaming and words are totally ineffective, of course, in terms
of changing or ending what’s happening to me. You calmly sit there, highly
enjoying yourself as I suffer. You do stop now and then to take pictures
with a camera and film some of the torture with a camcorder. At one point
you sarcastically compliment me on the duration and intensity of my
screams, saying you wish you’d brought a battery-powered decibel-meter to
analyze them.

And as always, you’re proven correct again. Eventually my screams do end,
as if there’s a finite limit and I’ve used them all up. I have no idea how
long it’s taken for it to happen. You tell me later it was about half way
through. But even if I finally can no longer scream, I never stop straining
and twisting and pulling against the restraints holding me down.

Finally after an eternity and thousands of burning, stinging bites the
timer goes off and you step over to set me loose. When my last limb is free
I’m up in a frenzy of movement and frantic activity, trying to fling aside
and brush off the ants that are all over me.

“Use your brain,” you tell me. “The quickest way to get all those ants off
is to jump in the pond — it’s six feet deep in the middle.” That’s all it
takes —I yank off the goggles and I’m off in a flash for the water.

When I emerge and eventually make my way back to where you are, I’m moving
very slowly in a lot of pain. Large areas of my body are looking bright red
and starting to swell.

And then a major defining moment in our relationship occurs. You look me in
the eyes and calmly speak directly to me. “Listen carefully. I’m only
saying this one time. I’m going to give you an order. You made a serious
error in judgment earlier for which you’re going to suffer severely, and
I’m hoping you’re smart enough not to compound it and make things worse
now. I expect you to do exactly as told and will accept nothing less. Put
these back on,” you say as you hand the eye protection goggles back to me.

As I’m doing that you continue. “I’m not going to restrain you with any
chains this time. I want you to go over and lay down on the ant nest again,
spreading your arms and legs out where they were before. You will remain
still and stay there until I tell you to get up. That’s all. Now move.”

I’m obviously being tested. Am I going to defiantly challenge your
authority again? Will I have the audacity — the nerve — enough guts —
the balls — to ignore a command from you a second time, triggering your
wrath and rage and setting myself up for additional punishment? Absolutely
not— no way — I’m not that idiotic or suicidal. I simply can’t fuck up
this time. Earlier I failed in my basic duty and obligation as a slave to
deliver unconditional and complete obedience to my master. That there
should be a heavy, harsh, and severe penalty to be paid as a result should
not be a surprise.

Admittedly the first time I screwed up I was in a daze and not
thinking. But I can’t plead that as an excuse and ask for leniency and beg
for mercy — it would only be pathetic, feeble, and lame. Yes, it was
incredibly stupid of me before to not obey — it didn’t prevent my body
being made available for the ants to assault and only made it worse,
increasing the amount of time I had to endure it. And of course, now I’m
going to have to somehow survive the extra punishment ordeal you’re
planning as a consequence. I’m pretty sure though, that whatever that will
be, it isn’t this laying down with the ants again, and that you aren’t
going to keep me there too long. You’re going too easy on me — no IcyHot,
you didn’t rake the ground over their colony, and you’re not securing me to
the stakes this time. One thing I can count on is that when the punishment
for my foolish lapse begins, whatever it may be, it’ll definitely be
brutal, agonizing, maximally painful — and, as you earlier described
these ants, very bad.

So although I’m still clearly petrified of the ants, my fear of you now is
even greater. I submit and capitulate to your desires and somehow motion in
my body starts — loathe as I am to do it, I silently walk to the dreaded
site and lie down and move my limbs apart. It’s one of the hardest things
I’ve ever had to make myself do in my life. Immediately an impressive,
uncountable number of angry, aggressive, vicious ants are crawling on my
body in attack mode. After all the bites I just experienced in ninety
minutes, what are a few more? — one could ask, I suppose. I grimace and
quiver, quake and tremble, shake and moan and clench my teeth, struggling
mightily to control my body and maintain composure and decorum as much as
possible beyond that.

After ten minutes you speak. “That’s much better. The first time right from
the start you were all worked up mentally and nearly hysterical. And I have
to say, at times I’ve been disappointed and dismayed, starting to have
doubts about your ability to learn to take pain like a real man. Your
progress has been frustratingly slow — no leaps and bounds, that’s for
sure. I’ve wondered if perhaps I made a mistake and mis-evaluated matters
in taking you on — I may have let the fact that you sucked my dick so
well the first time we met overly influence my judgment — maybe you don’t
have what it takes in you for accepting, handling, and tolerating pain. But
this is a big improvement over round one. You may get up now and jump in
the lake again.”

One again my desperate need to get all the ants who’ve been torturing me
off of my body compels me to find the necessary energy, in spite of all
I’ve been through so far, to dash for the water with surprising speed and
agility.

In a few minutes I return and remove the eye goggles. “Follow me,” you
instruct, and you lead me to the nearest large tree, an oak. “Embrace the
tree — get you body right up next to it, tight and close — hug the bark
and wrap your arms around the tree.” As I do so, with a small length of
chain you hook my two wrists together. I’m in perfect position for the
entire back side of my body to be flogged, and now I know what’s coming.

“I left something I need now in the car,” you tell me, “so I’ll have to go
back and get it. Obviously I didn’t anticipate needing it — I guess I
should have put it in the wagon just in case. Next time I certainly
will. And now, during my absence, let me leave you with this happy thought
to ponder. The words `bullwhip’ and `blood’ both have the letters `b’ and
`l’ in them. Bullwhips and blood — they certainly go together. Certainly
not all blood comes from the use of a bullwhip, but on the other hand a
bullwhip is never used on a man without blood resulting. I’m going now to
retrieve the heavy duty bullwhip I always keep in the car.”

As you leave, just as you knew I’d be, I’m inwardly drowning in immense
fear and terror at what you’ve said. I’m gonna be flogged with the kind of
whip that leaves behind dramatic red stripes of dripping blood. All I can
think of is how stupid I was earlier, wondering how many lashes you’ll give
me, how much it’ll hurt, and how long it’ll take me to recover afterwards.

In perhaps a half hour — all too soon, since naturally I’m wishing you’ll
never find your way back — I hear your approaching footsteps. Then you’re
right behind me.

“In the normal scope and sequence of my slave training pain tolerance
curriculum, it’d still be quite some time before you’d be introduced to the
experience of a messy, bloody, agonizing flogging with a bullwhip. But of
course, your foolish inaction earlier has made this necessary now. Just
like losing your virginity, you never forget your first time. Of course,
after you first learn how a bullwhip can tear open your hide, you’ll
passionately hope it never happens again as long as you live. But remember,
as I’ve told you more than once, everything we do — including this —
will be repeated at least several times. And you’ll experience some
unpleasant things numerous times.”

With your left hand you forcefully grab my head by the hair and yank it
back, and then your right hand roughly rubs the cold surface of the coiled
whip against my cheek. “This is going to introduce you to more severe pain
than you’ve ever experienced before in your life — more sheer agony than
you could believe possible. The lashes you’ve received in my basement from
various whips and cats so far have been merely innocent and mild child’s
play compared to what this will do. And if you think the ants were bad,
just wait `till your feel this.”

You pause to let that sink it and then continue. “We’re not at my normal
location for bullwhip torture. But I do always try to be outdoors for it
since it’s such a bitch to clean up all the blood that flies and splatters
from where it lands and dries when you’re inside. I’d prefer for you to be
hanging suspended above ground, but this tree doesn’t have a major branch
that’s right for it — lucky for you, I suppose.”

You let go of my head as you go on. “A proper lash with a bullwhip rips
open the skin, tears into the muscle layer beneath it, and produces plenty
of blood — that’s all there is to it. If the same area is lashed
repeatedly, the tissue in that spot turns into messy, raw, pulverized,
bleeding, red pulp. Healing can be slow and usually leaves a scar.”

After another brief pause you continue. “You know, brutally beating men
with whips is nothing new — I’m sure it’s been done for thousands and
thousands of years. The ancient Romans are famous — now and back then as
well — for their advanced skills and mastery in the use of flogging as a
method of torture, punishment, interrogation, and execution. They would
often embed sharp bits of metal and pieces of broken glass into the ends of
the strands of their cats and in their whips. Besides flogging it was
sometimes called scourging. Some victims were flogged without letup or
mercy until they expired — the number of lashes required for death would
naturally depend on their intensity and the strength of the doomed
man. Often a man sentenced to decapitation would be flogged close to the
point of his life ending before his head was cut off — they felt that
simple head removal was too easy and wanted the victim to suffer more first
before the final end. And a man condemned to die by crucifixion — besides
having to carry the heavy wooden beamed cross he’d be nailed onto to the
site it’d be erected on — was also brutally scourged first.”

A wealth of information, you continue. “Many Oriental peoples in the Far
East have developed distinctive and creative methods of torture — some of
them quite extreme — that have been cultivated and refined over
centuries. Many have fascinating names, like `The Death of A Thousand
Cuts’. Orientals also seem to have a keen interest in water
torture. Compared to Westerners, they tend to be much more patient and are
willing to continue and repeat something small that may not seem so bad
when it commences for countless hours, over the course of which it becomes
anything but small.”

After a brief pause your narrative goes on. “One unusual and I imagine
highly effective pain production technique — perfected in the
Philippines, I believe — isn’t quite flogging, but it’s still something
quite interesting and worthy of consideration. The victim is tied down
shirtless onto a table or the ground, laying face down on his front side,
exposing his bare back. Instead of the use of a whip or cat of some kind, a
thin, flat, flexible but strong piece of metal that’s been heated until
it’s red hot is removed from the heat source and immediately laid down
across the man’s back and left there for a few minutes. It instantly melts
the now sizzling outer flesh and sinks down into the muscle tissue layer,
and then as it cools a bit the burning, melting skin — think how it must
smell — seems to coalesce and slightly solidify and reform over the metal
so that it ends up actually somewhat embedded into the man’s back. Only
then is the metal strip forcefully removed, ripping open the fresh flesh
layer that had just formed over it. And of course this is then patiently
repeated numerous times. I’ve never seen it in person, but I’d sure like to
— if I could stand the stench of the burning skin and muscle. Just
imagine the pain and the screams — they both must be incredible.”

Hearing this, I briefly think to myself that things could be worse than
what’s momentarily in store for me.

“But I digress for far too long,” you say. “We should get back to what’s
about to happen here and now — your first bullwhipping.” Then you’re
stepping away — obviously to get to the proper distance from my body for
using the bullwhip on it.

“I’m not about to do this at a half-assed level. When I use a full-sized
bullwhip to decorate a man with red stripes, he damned well knows he’s been
whipped. I put all my strength and full energy into each and ev’ry lash —
that’s one of the reasons there’s so much blood when I do it compared to
some others. When we’re done I’ll be drenched in sweat from the effort I’ve
expended. I’ve settled on giving you thirty lashes. It was going to be
fifty, but because you performed so well the second time you laid down on
top of the ants I’m mercifully reducing it. I’ve decided on an interval of
fifteen seconds between each lash, and there’re two buckets of water from
the pond sitting here on the ground to use if needed to revive you should
the searing intensity of the immense pain at any point render you
unconscious. To be honest, I’m fully expecting that to happen. The water
isn’t as cold as I’d like, but that can’t be helped. So you’ll at least be
able to sit down as you heal, I’ve decided to only flog your back — not
your ass.”

And for once there’s no pause for me to consider what you’ve just
said. Only a few seconds after hearing the word “ass” a mighty crack
explodes in the air as the brutal whip lands full force on my bare back for
the first time and the blood instantly and copiously flows out of my
savagely ripped open flesh. You were absolute right. I’ve never felt such
pain and never would have believed anything could produce such agony in my
body. It turns out I’m not totally screamed out after all, and an immense
one spontaneously erupts from the depths of my mouth. In only a few moments
I’ll be far too overwhelmed to be able to pointlessly beg for you to stop,
but at the beginning I at least manage to refrain from doing that.

As the lashes go on I’m not able to continue screaming as loudly, and about
halfway through the screams end. But that doesn’t mean the pain is any less
— if anything, it’s even worse as lashes start to land on spots already
bleeding from earlier ones.

You count out the lashes as you deliver them, but soon I’m losing mental
acuity, going beyond being able to notice, focus, understand or
comprehend. The only thing I’m aware of is the unbelievable pain that
completely dominates ev’ry fiber of my being — the endless waves of it
have become my entire world at the moment.

After lash twenty-two I do indeed pass out. You stop and revive me after
throwing both buckets of water on my face and holding an open container of
concentrated ammonia near my nostrils — you’re better prepared than any
Boy Scout could ever hope to be. And though it leaves me no longer
unconscious and ready to suffer through the remaining lashes, I’m still not
fully with it by any stretch of the imagination.

After you’ve delivered the last lash — as you said, not letting up
whatsoever in intensity and force —- you unhook my hands and I instantly
collapse in a bleeding, limp, heap on the ground — not quite unconscious,
but not far from it, either. You have to take everything out of the wagon
and toss me into it on the tarp to get me back to the car — there’s no
way I’m going to make it on my own, and the wagon’ll be easier than
carrying me, even if it means another trip back to retrieve the normal
contents of the wagon to finally get them back to the car.

Back at the car, you place the tarp on the back seat and toss me onto it,
hoping to keep the bulk of my oozing blood off of the interior. It’s mostly
clotted by now and not so actively flowing. I’m lying on my side, and you
strap me in with several seatbelts.

And after you’ve got all your materials, supplies, and items back from the
site of the ant nest, we’re off for home. I remember nothing of the trip
back. I finally wake up the next day, in bed on my front side, sore and
miserable and groggy from the sedative and pain medicine you’ve given me
(you’ve also given me antihistamine medication along with an antibiotic).
You come in and begin gently attending to my wounds, and I’m once again
struck at the immense contrast between how ruthless you can be when giving
the torture and how tender you can be in dealing with the aftermath.