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.

***