Heavy Haul (2/2): MM/m+, NC, CBT, CP, Anal

Chapter Two

As the leaders start their haul towards home, the bold digital numerals of the countdown tell them that 11 minutes (and some seconds) of their 33 remain. They know what their circumstances require, and it mustn’t – absolute imperative – involve defeatism.  

Meanwhile, Hayden has collapsed at the turn. The rangy blond is on the floor, literally, pressing an impression of his sweat slick torso onto the tough blue surfacing of the track. He retches at high volume,  losing himself in a sea of sobbing despond. Face down, Hayden wraps the circumference of his skull with a long arm, draped and limp, hiding from his bosses – as though that were possible.  

The kid’s tears soak the semi-circular turning bowl he’d started negotiating, before he wilted.

The 21-year-old recovers sufficient composure to tell us his problems:

‘It’s soooo heavy….so hard….I know I can’t go on…I just can’t move!’ He whines.

Ivan – who has suspended chucking rotten tomatoes over the Midwestern church boy – stands beside the sad loser, listening to Hayden dump his problems on us.  

‘You feeling the pressure through your nuts, huh?’ Ivan checks.

Regrettably, the boy responds to the gentlest of questioning by breaking down again.

‘It’s just way too heavy…and insanely fast…and I can’t cope!!’ Hayden sobs.

Ivan gives the kid ten seconds to get his shit together again, before pronouncing.

‘Look up at me,’ says the Russian.

From the floor, the boy cranes his neck. His every facial feature is puffy, and raw.

‘I know it’s a big load to tow by your balls, okay?’ Ivan says. Naively, Hayden leans in for a concession. ‘But you will be completing the haul, even if it takes four fucking hours and severs that useless sac.’

The boy doesn’t receive his orders well. His face is back in nested, folded arms.

‘Oh fuck PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZEE Sir!’ Hayden warbles through phlegm.

And now the electro prod is deployed in anger for the first time, today. The lightning is aimed at the crack of Hayden’s quivering ass, seeking to electrify the ultra-sensitive flesh within. With a feline squeal the kid flies into the air, shocked from his lazy slump, then crash lands just as briskly with a thump.

‘Another?’ Ivan asks, waggling the baton.

‘NO!’ the boy screams, outraged at the prospect.

‘Re-start then, bitch!’ Ivan yells.

‘Sir, please…’

I interject, looking to improve productivity by lowering the heat. ‘Complete your turn, Hayden, then let’s see you in head-down racing mode, looking to rescue some pride from this nightmare.’

But I’m needed down the track, to manage the leaders, so must leave Hayden with Ivan’s subtleties: 

‘Shift that fucking ass! NOW! Tear those fucking nuts off – whatever it fucking takes!’

Still bawling, the dirty blond collects himself back into a poise for effective haulage. Puffing his soggy cheeks, grimacing and tensing, Hayden overcomes mechanical complaint to get his wagon rolling.

‘Speed, now,’ Ivan harasses him. ‘Create the momentum, and make this a glorious sprint home.’

At the front, the race remains nip and tuck between Tyler and Nathan. They’re through the furnace for a second time, and haven’t let getting cooked bring them to gasping halts they can’t afford to indulge in.

The pace has been upped, to a startling extent. The impossible has become achievable, for a short burst at least.

The black and white leaders are noisy, but in a focused way: no breath is wasted cursing the task, or me, or each other. They’ve got around to exhibiting undiluted effort, because I’m right by their sides with a whip:

‘Ahhh… fuckin’ MOVE!’ (T)

‘Ahhh… Jesus!’ (N)

‘Come ON!’ (T)

Wheelsets trundle with a more consistent sound, suggesting agile tugging of the weighted carts. The squeaks from stressed bearings are more noticeable.  

At this canter, the boys are feeling the bulb plugs wedged in their asses more profoundly. The anal intrusions are significant, and now those firm curves are really grinding their innards, forcing non-optimal, knees-wide crawling stances.

The use of butt plugs in assessments such as this does two things: 1) the imposition of another sexual angle to the physical tasking, and 2) the creation of another compromise the boys must manage, between progress and pain, that Ivan and I will refuse to make any allowance for.

I’m using my personal CP tool on them – a short, hard-cracking signal whip. I’m beating freely, switching between them with no particular strategy beyond a general urge to drive them harder. I’m not counting my strikes to audit fair play between the lanes. Tyler and Nathan are moving at almost twice the speed of their first lengths, but that doesn’t put them on target to cross the line in 33 minutes, so my whiplash motivation is justified and should be regarded as supportive.

Ivan’s biting whips are familiar to these boys, but provoking me personally is a notable low for them. It’s not that I whip harder or more expertly than Ivan – in fact, he’s the ace flogger – but rather that when their ultimate boss man weighs in, unsatisfied, they recognise developments have pivoted unfavourably.

Mostly, I let my whip do the talking across hustling butts. I pepper the flogging with sparing verbals, to reinforce my message in case it’s not been understood:  

‘Faster isn’t fast enough, yet. Let’s put firecrackers up those plugged asses.’

‘You must obsess over the time, boys.’

‘Come on… full stretch on those nuts, boys. Load them up, properly. Hurt until you can’t take anymore, and then drive harder still.’

‘Only one thing should matter to you, at this stage.’

These two are slow to tears, even under assault. Their reserves of resilience impress me, supplemented by a new understanding – taught to them – of the behaviours required to stand just the slimmest chance of satisfying a notorious queer sadist.  

Their jockeying for pole position turbocharges them, as well. Typified by the extra weight in Tyler’s trolley, I’ve spent weeks finding opportunities to seed antagonism in the group, such that their rage which should be directed wholly at me, erupts as nighttime hostilities in their shared cell. Most of their tasks position these boys as rivals, but my manipulation has added petty jealousy, mistrust and estrangement to the toxicity.

For Tyler and Nathan, racing competitively with almost nothing in it, this scrap is personal. The yearning for vengeance overcomes their battles against fatigue.

My whipcracks echo, and to each of them there’s a verbal response from the targeted boy. Tyler is typically pithy at the moment of impact:   

‘FUCK!’

The stinging – the welting of butt flesh, drifting to upper thighs – doesn’t slow the pair. In fact, the statistics show they’re hurrying even faster towards the line. To howls of distress, the last bump is ploughed through at speed.

Now Nathan is forging a narrow lead: he was utterly brutal with himself, over that hump. Characterisation of the Afro-European boy as lazy, because his default is laid back and he’s adept at shirking onerous extras – like that incremental 1kg  – is nothing but a cliché. The soaking fitness model responds excellently to the lashing of a whip tail over his hairless ass mounds, getting his sphincter churning on that rude butt plug.

I continue to press the duo:

‘Rip them clean off, boys. Destroy any baby-making dreams right now, if it’s necessary, Nathan.’

Transferring my attention back to Tyler, I add impetus to the soldier boy’s struggle to re-take his lead. I snap the whip harder, at elevated frequency, over scars I’ve just left. I hope Tyler feels singled-out. It’s been rare for the 25-year-old to receive such personal attention, from me. It’s a treat.

Tyler’s fight fails to close down Nathan’s advantage, though neither is the outcome certain just yet, as they pound the last straight. I remind Tyler what I expect of him:

‘Dig to your depths and turn up the dial. Find that extra 15% you need to level up, and overtake. Make it happen, for us both, Tyler.’

It’s rare for me to use a boy’s given name, in these situations, and I watch Tyler hear it and sharpen his act.

‘Give me something more, huh? Show me, personally, the very best version of you.’

Unexpectedly, he finds a voice around my whip cracks:

‘Yessss….AWWWWW!….SSSSirrrr!’

Tyler’s growing a semi-hard, now. I’d not caged their pricks for this assessment, reasoning that it was improbable any of them would embarrass themselves with stiff wood, under this torture. But the army boy’s cut shaft swells at horizontal, and his crown is moist.  

Astonishing, in the circumstances? Not at all, on my further consideration. Remember, Tyler’s dad died when he was seven, but now – 18 long years later – he’s found the alpha male who occupied his fantasies for much of that time, whom even the edgier sections of the military failed to provide. I’m a man Tyler may call Sir, authentically, who’ll role model masculine control for him, whilst whipping him into line without restraint. At last, a man for Tyler to make proud, though I ensure that’s almost impossible.

There are tears welling, as Tyler fails to re-take the lead he surrendered, but they don’t fall: Tyler would hate to be that conspicuous with his emotions. The extent of his self-containment is highly unusual and, in any normal context, disturbing. 

I know there’s another reason for Tyler’s erection. It’s because he’s lost the lead, and therefore receiving more coaching from me. I’m certain he’s still fighting to win, and that’s evidenced by his statistics improving, but Tyler’s thoughts will have turned to the ‘what next?’, if he’s unable to claw this back:

The minute scrutiny. My disappointment. An intimate 1-2-1 meeting between us, perhaps!!?  The story he’ll spin me, by way of explanation (but not excuse). The role of his extra 1kg, and whether that’s worth mentioning, even? Punishment and – if so – whether it’s tailored to him, and what that might look like in practice? Consequences, and decisions. Final decisions?

A great deal will flow from a second place – a loss, snatched from the jaws of victory – that wouldn’t have arisen if the boy who loved the SERE course in special forces training had brought home his win. And Tyler’s thinking about it lots.

‘FUCK!’ he roars, as I switch to Nathan’s backside and slave drive the dark-skinned boy at the last.

My boots were polished this morning, by one of the boys, until they could recognise facial features reflected. I can’t say who was responsible as it’s a detail they share, with Ivan’s footwear to be buffed to gleaming as well. But with three boys and two pairs of boots, let’s take a wild guess that Nathan managed to shirk the task. (‘I ain’t polishing nutin’ for dem fags, bro! You do it, if you like.)

It’s rare that I kick-out. My sadistic niche is sexual violence, not physical violence. Bruising, per se, is never an objective though it’s often an incidental. But when I get close alongside them, fidgeting with my feet in a way that draws attention to the heavy boots, the kids know I’m contemplating a move.

The boys hate being kicked, with force that can make them puke. I wouldn’t kick without cause, such as disrespect, refusal… or serious non-performance. They were given 33 minutes to complete their ball haul, having been told it was enough, yet here we are at 34 minutes plus, with the leaders still grinding towards the finish, groaning about their lot in life with hard profanities, and the countdown displaying 00:00. 

And I have nut sac pommels, in bondage, as slow-moving targets. I slip behind Nathan, between his ass and his cart, and he’s cute enough to become alarmed.

‘No… please don’t…. Sir…. no….’

It’s a perfect thump, centrally to the boy’s gathered balls with the tip of my boot. And oddly, the other two boys moan, gasping with shock and second-hand agony, before the victim himself reacts.

Nathan stops, dips his gridded abdomen to the track such that his butt is reared to its highest, and screams with a ferocity I’ve not heard before – deep, and with full fury – roaring around the track room. Everything tensed rigid, the boy turns his neck to look behind, glare at me, and ask me non-verbally: WHY?  WHY NOW?  WHY ME?  WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A CUNT?

And then he pukes across his lane, pushing his head low to chunder with volume, in both senses of that word.

‘Recover,’ I say, by Nathan’s flank, tapping my whip on a boot calf, impatient. ‘And then faster, to the line.’

I step across lanes to reach the far side of Tyler, who’s used the opportunity to make ground on his nemesis, but is now a broken boy. He senses my suffocating presence most acutely.

‘The same?’ I ask the American.

‘Sir…. please….’ Tyler stammers, stalling.

Genuinely, I’m unsure whether it’s a pleading NO, Sir! or an extraordinary Yes, please! that the workhorse is trying to articulate. I guess the former, but watching his stiff knob stuck at half-mast, and sensing his conflicted state on this run-in it could, just possibly, be the latter. Anyway, he opts not to clarify for me.

I hold back. No kick.

‘Give me the win, Tyler,’ I address him intimately again, wondering what miracles might be achieved through his masochistic bent alone. ‘Give it to Daddy, now.’

‘Fuck,’ he whispers, barely audible, frustrated because he wants this so fucking much.

Nathan’s performance hasn’t been damaged, beyond the temporary shock. The athlete is galloping towards the line, and almost there. Some boys give their best work only when treated despicably mean – fact.

Tyler suffered momentary distraction, concerning my intentions, that he couldn’t afford. He’s heavy-hauling strongly, again, but there’s going to be fifteen seconds splitting first and second places.

Both of them break down, once their weighted trolleys are safely over the line. Sprawled over the floor, they let limbs spread haphazardly. Nathan sobs hard, now it’s over, whilst Tyler looks what he is – a beaten boy.

Let’s not forget there’s a real loser – Hayden – who, despite Ivan’s motivational cajoling, finishes 14 minutes – yes, minutes, not seconds – behind Tyler. The blond boy is a horrific mess of sweat, tears, and fierce welts. By the time he crosses the mark and hunches as close to foetal as his bondage permits, the other boys have been unhitched, unchained, and ordered into a disciplined upright pose.

***

They present themselves, formally, in their practiced way: feet planted shoulder-width apart; the fingers of both hands weaved behind the skull, with elbows forming wings – thrust back, to turn-out their armpits. Eyes fixed ahead, backs straight, key muscle groups tensed, and tummies tucked.    

Strewn on the floor around them are their extracted butt plugs, still slippery with anal juices and stained by faecal debris. Gaping boy holes seep a nasty cocktail of lube and filth, liquefied by blood.

Hard labour has left them smelling vinegary, with the sickly taint of terror.  

Their liberated nut sacs confirm a brutalisation has occurred. The scrotal colours are black and purple, but it’s the distended shapes that horrify most, post-exertion on the heavy haul. We’re talking drooping, sagging sac leather, but marked by gross asymmetry from side to side, with one nut appearing shrivelled and high – dead? – whilst the other stone is sloppily loose. The sac work-out has left all three with swan necks and the low-hanging balls they always desired, to fill their CKs… but not like this!

The appearance of the freed juicers is similar across the group, but Tyler looks marginally worse injured than the others. The soldier’s nuts might have been burnt, such is their charcoal blackness, and his ‘hang’ is tortuously twisted – so worked that those fat rocks have forgotten how they’re supposed to fall, painlessly. The twin impacts of Tyler’s extra kilogram, and the strength of his effort, have told on him.

Standing, they continue to boil with sweat: it’s kept far too humid. Their chests, smooth and sculpted to a piece, flutter nervously with exquisite pectoral definition on the puff part of the respiratory cycle. I’ve made them close ranks, so it’s a tight row.     

They await my scathing de-brief.

‘Thirty-three minutes,’ I address the trio. ‘It wasn’t a random number. Thirty-three minutes was chosen, with care, as an allowance of time that would present you with challenge. Significant challenge, I admit. Thirty-three minutes invited you to stretch yourselves, literally and metaphorically. You’ve been here for five weeks, now, so you all understand the level of… effort… we’re looking for, when we talk about hard work. Yes?’

‘Sir!’

‘And you know, very well, that we expect you to apply yourselves beyond comfort, and beyond discomfort, and beyond pain, to what we know as agony, when we run these decisive tasks. Yes?’

‘Sir!’

‘Because these events don’t last forever, right? But whilst they’re underway, there has to be a disregard for what’s reasonable, or safe. I thought you understood that being in the service of men such as Ivan and me demands more sacrifice than your previous environments. So, more focus, more determination, endless resilience and – especially – a reorientation away from the obsession with self. I mean, I thought this was clear weeks ago, but does it still sound like Swahili to you, boys?’

‘No, Sir!’

‘So, onto a fact. If you – Nathan and Tyler – had both taken your first halves as quickly as your second halves, then you’d have completed the run comfortably within your 33-minute allowance, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. Right?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ (T)

‘Yes, boss!’ (N – with a sarcastic tone adjacent to petulance)

‘But instead you started at a crawl, broke into an honest dash only when your situation was irretrievable, and finished with times just under, and just over, thirty-seven minutes. Four minutes late, boys, because you weren’t prepared to work yourselves that bit harder, or to damage yourselves just a little more, for the greater good.’

The chastised pair remain silent. They make a reasonable job of shuttering their emotions, though Nathan’s facial tics – his nasal flaring, for example – parade a boy on the cusp of an  outburst. .But Nathan finished first; there must be some reward attached to that; so the tongue must continue to be bitten.

‘Tyler? No comment? Would you like to tell me how that haul felt for you, perhaps?’ I ask. And the eldest of the boys sees that the consequence of his silence to my simple premise, is an unwanted opportunity to answer a more difficult, open question.

Tyler moistens in a sweaty moustache above his upper lip. He’s weighing my question and gauging my mood, being courageous in taking time to assess my appetite for his truth of the last hour.

‘Sir… that was heavy. I mean, fucking heavy with the load, obviously. But heavy as a task, mostly,’ Tyler says, talking with clarity. ‘Probably the hardest so far with the workload, and the tests of the track, and the limitations of….’ He trails off.

‘Time?’ I suggest.

‘Yes, Sir. I felt like I’d given everything, to finish in 37,’ Tyler says. ‘To think of getting around in 33… that would have been fucking… insanely destructive.’

The boy has opted for candour, I note. It’s his form of pressure release.

‘Perhaps, Tyler,’ I say. ‘Though that’s not an excuse I’m prepared to accept. In fact, that sort of talk pisses me off, big time. So, we’ll meet – one to one – to consider whether you’ll play any further part in the group, before I catch-up with Hayden and seal his fate.’

He sported an erection twenty minutes ago, but there sure ain’t a stiff prick on the soldier now. Tyler was controlled when he went loose-lipped, and there’s no sign of regret, but he’s aware of the gravity of his situation.

‘Understood, Sir. Tonight?’ Tyler asks, of the meeting arrangements. I shake my head.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ I say. Another sleep before we discuss his future, plus a half-day of focused work, with this hanging over him.

‘Fuck. Yes, Sir,’ Tyler accepts.

I turn to the biracial boy.

‘Nathan, you also failed to bring your heavy haul back within thirty-three minutes. So there’s no cause, whatsoever, for congratulation.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Nathan says. There’s a trace of dismissiveness in his response, like he’s waiting and seeing how I intend to follow-up, anticipating blessings.

‘But… you were over the line first. Your nut-stretching technique, as you developed it, became efficient. On the second half of your run, I became impressed by your stoicism, Nathan. And, when I kicked your balls, your impetus was positive. So…. I don’t need to see you, and I’ll award you one privilege point. Keep your head up, and I want you to drive yourself even harder for me, Nathan. Okay?’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ Nathan says, oozing cockiness. He leans, letting a winged elbow graze one of Tyler’s, next to him in the row.

***

 

Heavy Haul (1/2): MM/m+, NC, CBT, CP, Anal

Heavy Haul

Chapter One

They can’t get moving.

Well, they could get moving, but there’s an excess of tentativeness in the room. They’re reluctant to stretch themselves, and scared of the consequences of doing so.

The haul they’ve been instructed to make is calibrated as feasible, but it’s a hard ask. The successful boy, or boys, will be the pioneering sort who plunders his personal reserves – of strength, and of courage – to a state of unreasonable depletion.

But fear is contagious and the three boys each add to the collective angst, whilst stuck on the starting line. 

They’re young men of different character, who handle their shared challenge accordingly:

For Tyler, it’s about steely focus.

For Nathan – effortful noise, dashed with profanities of the worst kind.

And for Hayden, tears.

How they achieve is a distant secondary to the act of achievement itself, though, and they know this well.  

Their environment is unfavourable, from the humidity and harsh spotlights of the room to the intimidatory leather and rubber ensembles worn by us, their impatient taskmasters. These disadvantages must all be overcome.

They’re still not moving, loudly, on the grid. Chains are now being tested to tautness, though, as they explore – in a conceptual way – what it will entail, to heavy haul.

Behind each of the boys, to be towed, is a miniature four-wheeled trolley laden with barbell weights. Framework wire mesh sides contain the loads.

The boys’ ball sacs are gripped around their scrotal necks by sturdy wooden traps, hinged to one side, locked on the other, and 30cm across. Clammy sac flesh stuffs a circular hole of 1cm diameter, central in the trap when the jaw is closed.

Screwed to the back of the ball traps are two steel rings – one towards each end of the width. Onto the rings, link chains are attached, stretching to further hitching points on the front axle sets of the trolleys. It’s these chain lengths the boys have moved, from draping over the floor to tightropes, elevated 15cm.

Our tractor units crouch on hands and knees, a metre or so in front of their trailers. They’ve all shuffled forward, extending their twin towing chains. That was pain-free but, as they test what it will mean to make the required progress, they gain first impressions of how big weight feels, when transmitted through boy juicers.    

At least two of them are close to motion, but there’s a mental block preventing them from making it happen. They’re not quite prepared to accept the quantum of pain intrinsic to this haul.

They’ve done a practice trolley drag, last week, but under favourable conditions – namely, 2kg of payload, lots of time, and low stakes. As Ivan told them in their briefing for this task, to prepare them for change: 

‘Your era of easy, is over. Your time for fun in life, is over.’

They’re accustomed to being harried by the Russian, but my presence in person from the start is irregular, layering-on the pressure. If I’m around, the task is of great consequence and they’ll want to perform well, in front of me. But the claustrophobia of sadist leather and rubber – so close they can smell the uniforms – plus our weaponry, hasn’t cowed the group into movement, so far.

There’s an electro-prod clipped to one side of Ivan’s utility belt, and a whip to the other, but he and I are prowling rather than jumpstarting boys, at this early stage. After all, the deadline is their problem, not ours. When they hear our boots clopping beside them, though, the kids are inclined to turn their heads and worry, diverting their focus from work.

They’ve each got one lane of a straight, 30m indoor track, and they start alongside each other. 

Stationary but with tow chains extended rigid, on the cusp of achieving something, the boys are grunting lots. It’s like the return of serve vocal in a hotly contested tennis championship. With me around, too, they’re desperate to prove they’re trying really hard, but the soundtrack cuts no ice.

Ivan and I have stayed quiet, but now we offer encouragement from close quarters:

‘Let’s see you queens get racing… or do I need to get my toys out?’ (Ivan)

‘The first step is the worst step, boys. Time to take it and gain motion, though.’ (Me) 

Biracial Nathan and Ohioan church boy Hayden have 6kg of discs loaded in their carts, but military boy Tyler struggles with 7kg. Our game was to create bad blood between them, by demanding one competitor take an outsize burden and leaving it to the three of them to decide who put his hand up for more.

There was a physical altercation – face-off pushing and shoving – between Nathan and Tyler, with appalling cursing directed personally. Hayden did well to keep mute and let the mouthy model and American army boy battle it out. Only Ivan’s looming deadline to decide – just six seconds remaining – and terror of presenting an inconclusive outcome saw Tyler fold, accepting the incremental 1kg with tense vascularity and hot fury.

With a jolt and a high-pitched wail, Nathan inches forward on his mitted hands and padded knees. He’s surprised himself.

‘Good boy. Now, keep it moving… don’t let it stop… keep your momentum… torture those nuts,’ Ivan addresses the trailblazer individually.

The white hand and knee protectors are worn by the three of them, but otherwise they’re ball-hauling naked. However, each is stuffed with a bulbous black butt plug that caused indignation upon rammed insertion, despite a slime of lubricant easing the anal passage.

Seeing a rival get moving, blond Hayden’s self-indulgent sobbing increases in volume. It doesn’t help him that this place echoes.

They’re working to a ticking countdown, as so often. This evening, the boys have 33 minutes to complete travel of the track in both directions; so, 60 metres in total with an awkward turn at the half-way point. It’s a precise allowance of time, arrived at by taking a ‘reasonable’ number – 50 minutes – established through long experience of running this scene, and then subtracting a third to present the trio with an aspirational timing, that has instead been presented to them as a no excuses norm.

All three of them must return to the starting line within 33 minutes. Beyond that imperative they know I appreciate a winner, sometimes rewarding him. And for loser(s)? Well, Kit’s fate is now their nightmares.

With a guttural roar, Tyler’s underway with his overweight cart before he’s seen Nathan’s soles. Progress, also, is contagious.

Time is an abstract number until the boys, one by one, feel the weight they’re to haul for 60m, in the compression of their testes. But once they’ve known 6kg (or 7kg) stretching their nuts – plus the considerable weight of the trolley itself – they believe 33 minutes is way too short!

Executed correctly, the hauling task sees scrotal flesh behind the collar elongated to bacon rasher thinness. In contrast what remains of the sac, the other side of the squeeze hole, becomes the tightest pommel, nuts prominent as stones pushing against their much-diminished basket case shield. Done properly, this is how the boys should abuse their juicers throughout, but despite the countdown displays they’re tempted to slacken tow chains often, for crisis relief.

Ivan’s focus, during this heavy haul, is to persuade the kids to eliminate their slack and perform.

‘Tyler, let’s up the pace, yes? Adjust your poise, and let’s see some rhythm from you, huh?’

They know how to haul weight by the balls, but in panic it can be too easy to forget the optimal technique. Knees far apart; thighs angled in slightly, towards the waist; abdomen dipped low; ass high; hands wide; head up, proudly… and heave! Every pointer on that list helps them, honestly. Coincidentally it maximises the aesthetic of their sweated agony, for the observer. But they’ve started in an unorganised way that won’t sustain a sprint.

‘Don’t stop, Nathan! You know it makes your life harder. Keep grinding forward, yes?’

Their first 12 metres is a clear straight and, when they take it in the opposite direction on their return, they’ll be encouraged to think of it as a closing gallop. But on their outward journey, fresh, this is a section of track on which to set a pace and gain an advantage, in readiness for the trials ahead.

Hayden is the last boy to get going. Ivan encourages him with whiplashes through the air, above his ass, threatening to close-in upon those creamy globes if he fails to shift. It’s effective motivation, but there’s ground to make up for the tousle-haired God-botherer. Hayden’s physique – athletically slim – is less suited to ultimate endurance tasks, such as the haul, than Tyler’s surging muscularity – deep and powerful. Whatever: the deadline never discriminates between them.

There’s a pleasing soundtrack as these males barely cope with movement:

‘Ahh…. fuck.’

‘Ahh…. shit.’

‘Aww… FUCK!’

It’s not laid on for the benefit of Ivan and me. The profanities from lanes 1 to 3 are spoken softly, and they’re expressions of exasperation as the boys advance inch by inch. They swear as the weight is taken up by their sacs, then gasp exhales in tiny satisfaction of moving the wretched carts on, a pathetic distance.

I patrol with Ivan. The fact of the matter is, I’ve never witnessed a group of boys succeed on this track without very close adult supervision. My verbal interventions are sparse, but I like to think they carry authority:

‘I see all of you cruising, not hurting. I look at the clock. I advise a change of attitude.’

As I finish speaking, the rumbling gets louder: it’s the four tyres of each truck, turning faster on the smooth trackway. Tragically, for boys in general, bursts of pace in response to the choice words of a sadist usually fail to translate into a consistent dash. 

The background noise is completed by sundry sounds of motion, from the metallic jangling of tow chains, through soft clicking from uneven wheelsets, to the slight shifting of piled disc weights in their trolleys as the boys proceed with a series of yanking jerks.

They’ve become moist, though not yet soaked. Their ass-reared hauling poise is improving, and with it, their thrust. Watching one another, effective technique is spread silently around the group – boys are good at pilfering skills in this way. They’re re-learning toleration of high-level pain, but they’ve yet to embrace it.

Tyler has made ground on Nathan’s early start and there’s little distance between them, despite the cruel disparity in Tyler’s load. Hayden isn’t closing on them, but he’s keeping moving.

‘Dig deep, you faggots. Force an acceleration,’ Ivan demands. He’s such an inspiration.  

I don’t think Hayden has ever stopped crying, though at least his tears roll silently down those puffed cheeks, now. Nathan strains loudly in self-motivation, but Tyler is stoic.

The lead pair are approaching their first test, at the 12m mark. It’s a bump, across the full width of each lane and therefore unavoidable. Think of a speed hump on a residential street, with a graded ascent and descent. The bumps are rubberised, with short plateau tops and insignificant in height (2.5 cm), unless you happen to be tugging a cart full of weight by your twisted nuts.

In briefing the boys, the word test is always used of such features, never obstacle, or impediment. And now, Ivan reinforces the key point:

‘Nathan, Tyler… make damn sure your bumps are taken with no loss of pace. We’re serious about this, and watching… fucking zero loss of momentum from the humps in  the road. Understood, boys?’

‘Sir!’ Tyler shouts. His voice remains clear; confident, even.

Nathan merely huffs, petulant.

The boys must crawl over the bumps before their towed carts encounter them, and the anticipation adds to the sense of distress at the front of the race. Nathan grimaces in advance of the hurdle, displaying a full set of teeth perfected cosmetically for both alignment and whiteness. Tyler braces himself, stiffening his beefy thighs.

‘No loss of pace,’ I say, backing-up Ivan before front axles hit inclines.

Nathan is marginally ahead. When his trolley meets the bump, the dark boy gives a sharp wail of agony. Tyler battles forward until he, too, is climbing with his cart, and he yells:

‘FUUUUCCCCK!’ Everything clenched, face full of contortions. 7kg of dead weight, plus the trolley, up and over the hillock.

Both of them are feeling the hump with a stabbing pain resonating as acute nausea, registering over faces at once sickly. Those maltreated boy balls have a serious complaint, and demand to speak with the manager.  

The front axles are through before the rear wheels hit the incline, and the pain goes on repeat.

‘FUCK you!!’ Nathan screams, high-pitched.  

When the pair are back on plain track, Tyler has his head in front and is racing.

‘Now, I want real zoom-zoom speed. Let me see live torture,’ Ivan tells them. There’s no credit given for the nifty handling of the bumps – no acknowledgement of progress, even – so it’s just onto the next, grinding it out.  

My overseer flicks his whip in a more active way, striking fear but serving only as warning, for now. We want them to self-discipline on the outbound journey.

Hayden approaches his bump. With his rival boys having cleared the section already, Ivan and I can crowd the blond, bullying him with presence, let alone our words.

‘Shift, hillbilly!’ Ivan growls.

His front wheels hit the bump slope, but to Hayden the test feels like an insurmountable kerb and his trolley rolls back to the flat track, dragging bollocks with it.  

The slim kid breaks down, sobbing again but this time with added snivels and extra volume.

‘Problem?’ Ivan harries him.

‘The hump… I just can’t… hurts so much!’ Hayden whines. A pathetic sight from the teasing OnlyFans ‘creator’.  

‘You’re refusing? Saying no, fucker?’ Ivan bawls, leaning down into the kid’s face.

‘Hurts so bad… it’s ripping my balls!’ Hayden squeals. A drama queen. Abandoning control he pisses through his shrivelled dick, onto the track. It puddles. Hayden cries freely, eyes soaking. Stocky Ivan, snorting, readies his multi-tailed whip for imminent action. 

‘The end of the road for you, then?’ I intervene, measured with my tone.  

‘No… Sir… but pur-lease… just…’

‘One chance, only, to re-start,’ I tell the whimpering farm boy, deadly serious.

‘Yes… Sir….’ he garbles.

‘Now!’ Ivan barks, adding bad cop urgency.

And – lo and behold! – we find Hayden can tackle the bump. Just thin-out that sac neck further, until it’s almost transparent; tighten the crush on your nuts in their marble case; deploy some rarely seen grit, and fucking hurt yourself.  

Another melodrama with the rear wheels and, when he’s fully over, Hayden lets his truck stop, taking a break to indulge feelings of being hard done by.

‘Power on now, cunt,’ Ivan says. ‘Effort switched up, speed to fucking 10/10.’

‘Sir,’ Hayden says, his miserableness maxed out. But his wheels start to roll again.

Ivan steps back and turns from boy-specific to generalised bullying, raising his voice.

‘You can see the fucking countdown – all of you – and you know this is far too slow a pace, right? So, tell me, did anyone come here prepared to work hard?’

‘Yessir!’ Tyler slams back.

‘Any chance your Master and me will see heavy pain from you boys, today?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Tyler again, quick to communicate, because it’s been known to help manage Ivan’s mood. The Russian dislikes being ignored.   

‘Fuck off!’ Nathan calls, hating Tyler’s ass-licking responses, but still – he’s striving to recover that lead he lost.

‘It’s time – well beyond time – to show us you’re serious, boys,’ Ivan says.

***

At the 20-metre mark is the feature known as the furnace. It’s novel, it’s exciting, and it’s a fantastic opportunity for ambitious boys to show us their character in adversity. But they don’t always perceive it that way.

For a length of 3 metres, to both sides and facing inwards to each lane, are arrays of slimline panel heaters. Adding to the temperature are ceiling-suspended heaters of similar design, covering the same distance above the lanes. Each of the devices is run at 2000w, with thermostats turned up to their maximum.  

Within every furnace, two further track bumps are encountered – one towards both ends of the 3-metre test. The generous width of each lane leaves sufficient room for our athletes to crawl between the oppressive heat sources, to their sides.

The furnace poses questions around endurance, and resolve. Optically, every boy will leave it drenched in sweat; their cores so overheated they won’t lose that sheen for the rest of the exercise.   

Tyler has a slim lead over Nathan.

‘Fun times, Sergeant?’ Ivan asks, looking to provoke our army boy as he nears the feature.

‘No, Sir!’ Tyler says, in clear distress.

‘Gonna motor through this?’ Ivan says.  

‘Yes, Sir!’

And lately, Tyler seems to have found equilibrium in his urgent, awkward crawl, one bent knee forward – HEAVE WEIGHT – then the next, repeating ad infinitum, mechanically.

If there is a special cruelty, in the furnace, it’s the propensity of the invisible heat cloud to sap a kid’s energy in seconds, tempting him to linger and enter into the doom loop represented by a mid-oven stall.

The furnace must, instead, be a place of learning. It’s where fighting boys discover they can, in fact, work their balls way harder without a catastrophe occurring.

The moment Nathan enters the semi-tunnel of enveloping heat, he’s coated in a dense blanket of sweat. Rivulets in their dozens roll over his milk chocolate flesh, and drip from his septum. His cheeks balloon at the fiery encounter, as though pumped by an air hose.

Tyler, too, is soaking in seconds; the white boy’s pinkened thighs glistening under his dome of desert despair.

The feature punches hard, as intended. There are whole new levels of agony registering on the boys’ faces.

Ivan is ready with guidance:

‘Thin-out that ball flesh even further… flatten down those bollocks, paper thin… swell those tight nuts in their pommels until they’re purple boys… get it fucking DONE!’

This would be a whipping opportunity for my hard man, if only the boys weren’t shielded by heating apparatus. For that, they should be thankful.

Searing, the boys continue their back-and-forth leadership tussle as they grill, swapping pole and second positions with just centimetres in it. The competition drives them on, jerking nuts to unbearable nausea as the bumps are crested under acceleration.

It’s a long three metres for a boy – a relentless wall of fire, though the tunnel end is always within sight. 

Our biracial boy breaks down, though he must hate the exposure of his weakness, whimpering in the furnace as his muscles work to load-on stupid amounts of torture through his nuts.

The special forces grunt maintains better composure, as you might expect, but in the slit-eyed, brow-furrowed distortions of his face, it’s obvious that Tyler is close to his own breaking point.

I offer my thoughts on what I’m seeing:

‘Let’s start work, boys. I’m still searching for a hero, or two. Seen no sign of one, so far.’ 

The leaders have exited the furnace, though their trailers remain inside. Nathan – stopped – crouches low, stretching forward with his arms and panting raggedly. Tyler keeps moving in a disorientated way, crabbing and weaving along his straight lane, coughing.

‘No stopping! Keep moving. Force the pace. Torture your nuts, boys… really hard… really leverage them… you heard what your boss said!’ Ivan bullies, and he unclips the electro prod from his belt, which they’ll be sure to see through the corners of eyes, because it’s something these kids watch for keenly.

Lagging Hayden hits the furnace, and the slim-limbed gymfluencer is a mess, literally. The boy’s blond curls are soaking, dark and dishevelled. Hayden’s ill-advised (we say) tattoos offer a projection of masculinity that we just don’t see as he sobs through our pressure cooker, shaking and dripping and turning roasted red.

Alone, through this test, the 3^rd-placed boy attracts unwanted attention. Ivan hovers with the prod, but uses it only to rap the kid’s creamy ass globes whilst giving verbals:

‘Fucking faggot… get that lazy cunt moving… useless fag!’

Smooth and shimmering, Hayden is loudly distraught in the oven, wiggling his buns in an ineffectual attempt to shift up a gear.

‘This isn’t the moment to feel blue, Hayden,’ I say. ‘I don’t see an acceptable level of commitment from you. Therefore, my patience with you is near exhaustion.’

The blond wails, high pitched and curdled – probably a plea though it’s difficult to discern, he’s so shambolic. Out the other side the boiled boy collapses, as close to prostrate as his ball bondage permits. Hayden sheds waterfalls, head in mitted hands.

At the end of the track our two leaders struggle with the burden of turning their trolleys, 180 degrees, to face in the opposite direction ready for the homeward dash. A generous semi-circle is provided, for execution of the reversals, and the front axles are steerable, begrudgingly. Obviously, the manoeuvres must be completed through boy ball transmission alone, with no handling of the carts.

The act of switching direction requires the youths to subject themselves to a different range of pain; pulling and cajoling new nerves as they spin the trolleys – quickly, boys!! – in sequences of angled jerks, with legs askew and thighs putting in a great deal of directional work.

There’s huffing and puffing from the rivals. At the halfway point – distance, not time! – signs are emerging that order-taker Tyler – so resilient – is getting just as sick of this shit as quick-to-moan Nathan.

In buckets, Ivan and I have gathered a total of fifty rotting tomatoes. And, slowed at their turn, we pelt the twisting boys from close range. Broad backs are splattered with gunge in a semi-pureed state, and we lob the fruit at the masculine thighs straining like hell to switch overweight trucks.

Alongside the pelting, we support Tyler and Nathan’s endeavour verbally:

‘Get a fucking shift on, Sergeant!’ 

‘Hit the road, nigger! Get that fucking whore ass into second gear!’ (Ivan)

‘Enough of the dawdle. Time for the sprint, boys.’ (Me)

It becomes a noisy turn across the two of them, getting in each others’ way. Lots of self-pity, and fear, and anger about to explode.

The boys understand how we work, so they dread what’s to come. Their first 30 metres saw hands-off management, but their return runs – through the same tests – will be marked by intervention from Ivan, as necessary.