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.