Chapter 2

After the truck had pulled onto the freeway, and had reached cruising speed, I saw his right arm stretch out to his side, then move downward sharply. The sudden pulling of the cord told me he had hit it as hard as he could, with the result being that my already bent body and stretched penis tried to move forward. When they couldn't, I felt even more pain than before, and new heights of ecstasy were reached.

As he drove us toward his barn, his hand would strike the cord every few minutes, after which he'd yell out, "You still there, queerboy?" I'd do my best to force my throat to answer, and then he'd laugh and say, "Good." The entire trip was spent like that, up until the time he took a ranch exit somewhere west of the rest area. The road quickly turned rough, and since he needed both hands to drive, he didn't have time to give me any more pleasure.

I have no idea how far we had gone since leaving the freeway, but it had to have been at least 10 miles. I had discovered that my arms had stretched enough to allow me to see a little bit of the road ahead of the camper, and when we passed through an open gate, he confirmed my guess by saying, "Almost home, queerboy. Won't be long now." That seemed to strike him as overly humorous, and he laughed almost continuously until we approached a building, which, as we got closer, I recognized as a barn. My heart raced even more than it had already been doing, and the throbbing in my penis seemed to double.

A large set of double doors was standing open on the front of the barn, and he drove inside without stopping. He leaned over and must have untied the cord, since the tension went out of it, and my body slumped backwards. That small movement unleashed a flood of new pains as my muscles tried to readjust after almost an hour of being held in that unnatural position, and I didn't even notice that he'd unlocked the camper door. It startled me when he began to remove the handcuffs from my wrists and ankles, but again the flood of pain from cramped muscles commanded most of my attention.

As he led me out the door, he said that he'd need more light to remove the noose from my "little pecker." That reminded me to look down at that part of my body, which had ceased throbbing and aching about 15 minutes after we left the rest area. What I saw told me that when the cord was loosened, a throbbing ache would be the least of my troubles. I knew from long experience that when my penis or testicles had been tied off for long periods of time, they would be consumed by the fires of Hell when circulation was restored. Again, as with all things that caused me pain, I looked forward to that happening.

The man knelt in front of me as I stood in a patch of light from one of the high windows in the barn. He struggled with loosening the noose that had strangled my cock head, all the time teasing me by saying he'd probably have to cut it off. Then he'd laugh while saying, "And I don't mean the rope, queerboy. Wife wouldn't like it if I ruined one of her knots."

At last the cord came free, and as the blood flowed into my purple-black glans, I couldn't stop myself from crying out. As I stood there sobbing, he said, "That probably feels pretty good, don't it?" I gasped out my, "Yes," knowing all the while that it was nothing but the truth. It felt more than good, though: it felt wonderful.

When the throbbing and burning at last subsided, another urgent need took its place. As soon as my sobbing subsided, I begged, "Please, Master. I need to pee really bad. Please."

He said, "Well, I guess that's probably okay. I've heard it's not healthy for someone to hold his water for too long, and we sure don't want to do anything to hurt you, do we?" Again he laughed deep in his throat. I stood there waiting, trying to forget the horrible tightness in my bladder as he stepped back into the camper. When he reappeared in front of me once again, he was holding three sets of handcuffs. He said, "Ain't no place to take a leak in the barn, so I'll have to take you outside. Can't have you running off, can we?" He then pulled my arms behind my back, and secured my wrists with one set of the cuffs. As he knelt in front of me, he placed one set on each of my ankles, then fastened the two free ends to one another, very effectively hobbling me. Of course, there had never been any threat of me "running off," but just the idea of being restrained in that manner made me even hotter than before.

He then took ahold of one of my elbows, and began to escort me through a side door in the barn. Stepping outside of the building caused me an additional thrill, since I've always found it exciting be to outdoors when naked. I guess that dates back to all the time I spent with my cousin, with me in that condition. Todd always required me to be undressed when I sucked him, even though he always kept his clothes on.

I was led to a post-and-rail fence that enclosed a corral behind the barn, and then told to get down on my back. That seemed an odd position for relieving my bladder pressure, but by then my need was so great that I didn't try to question the order. It was pretty awkward to assume the position he wanted me in, but with his help, I finally did so.

As soon as I was flat on my back, he grabbed the cuffs on my ankles and lifted them to the top rail of the fence. A large nail had been driven in the rail, and when he placed the center link of the cuffs over it, I was securely held in that strange position. When I looked up, I saw my erection pointing directly at my face, and his order, "Open your mouth, queerboy," told me exactly what was going to happen.

You may think my situation then was not only uncomfortable, but also disturbing to me. If so, you'd be wrong. You see, I had for years been lying in my bathtub at home in a very similar position, and doing my best to direct my stream in exactly the same place that my captor obviously wanted it to land. That's why when I realized what he was going to do to me, it increased my arousal to yet another level.

He took my cock in one hand, and while pointing it at my wide-open mouth, said, "Okay, go ahead and piss." Of course, the combination of the exciting feel of his hand on me and the extreme arousal I was feeling made it almost impossible for me to get started. He apparently decided I needed some help, and poked one finger forcefully against my distended abdomen. He growled, "Do it, damn you. We ain't got all day. The wife will be home from work in a little while, and I got some things I want to do to you first."

I fought against the agony I felt as he pushed his finger into me, and finally was able to release a tiny trickle. Of course, that didn't have enough force to reach its intended target, which angered him. He threatened to poke me again, even harder, but that wasn't necessary. Apparently my body had decided to cooperate, and the golden nectar shot from the tip of my penis so forcefully that it hit the dirt above my head. He quickly adjusted his aim, and for the next several seconds I was in a state of bliss as his warm hand held me, guiding the yellow stream into my mouth, my eyes, my nose, and my ears, all the while laughing with delight.

At last the flow came to an end, and he lifted the ankle cuffs off the nail. Instead of ordering me to my feet, though, he told me to crawl over to a hydrant that had a garden hose attached to it. Once there, I was told to stand, and as I struggled to obey, he turned on the water and sprayed me all over, while directing me to turn around so my entire body would be washed.

After several seconds of that, he turned off the water, then once again held my elbow. We re-entered the barn, and this time walked directly to an interior door. When we entered the room beyond the door, and he turned on the overhead lights, I knew a thrill beyond compare.

There were so many wonderful things to see that there was no way for me to comprehend all of them at once. The barn had been built in the typical fashion for its age, which meant that it had post-and-beam construction. The longest beam had been put to a use never intended by the carpenters of long ago, and that use was vividly demonstrated by the two ropes draped over it. Each rope had a larger version of the hangman's noose that had been used to imprison my penis during the ride to the barn, and the other end of each ran to separate manual winches fastened to the nearby wall. There were two footstools positioned beneath one of the nooses, separated by about four feet of space. There was nothing beneath the second noose, but I was sure its purpose was much the same as the first.

The second thing that caught my eye was a utilitarian backyard barbecue unit that was actually nothing more than a large metal pan with three legs. It was piled with fresh charcoal briquettes, just waiting to be lit so they could burn down to a bed of red-hot coals. The purpose of those coals was evident when I saw the rack full of several varying designs of long metal tools. I recognized a branding iron, an oversize set of plier-like pincers, and several different configurations of pokers and hooks. Every one of those tools had figured in my fantasies on one or more occasions, and seeing them for real made my chest so tight that I could barely draw a breath.

Another of the "toys" was also familiar to me, since I'd had a lover at one time who had caused me to spend countless hours secured to it. It was what we'd always called an "X-beam," and that name is so descriptive that most people would recognize it immediately. Oddly enough, seeing such a recognizable thing there in that room was slightly disappointing, since my twisted brain was desperate for new and even more-exciting experiences than what I'd had in the past.

There was a display rack attached to one wall, and as I stared at it, I saw it held nothing there I didn't easily recognize. There were the usual whips, cuffs, restraints, and other toys that would have been expected in such a room.

After giving me almost a minute to look at everything in the room, Master led me to a position under the noose that had nothing beneath it. He removed the handcuffs from my wrists, and after tossing them aside, held the noose open in front of me while saying, simply enough, "Hands." I knew what he wanted, and held my arms out with my hands through the loop of rope. He tightened the knot snugly, then wordlessly walked to the winch where the other end of the rope was attached. The clicking of the pawl as he turned the handle, along with the tightening of the rope, told me all I needed to know about what was about to be done to me.

As the rope was lifted by the winch, my bound wrists were drawn upward. As I was hoping, the lifting didn't stop then. The handle continued to turn, and with each click that echoed through the silent barn, my arms stretched further and further, until I was standing on my tiptoes. He stopped cranking the winch at that point, then asked, "That far enough for you, queerboy, or would you like to be stretched just a little more?" I was almost beyond speech by then, my only focus the overwhelming lust that suffused my brain. It took a few seconds for me to understand what he was asking, but when I did, I cried out, "More! Please, Master, stretch me more!"

He chuckled deep in his throat, then as he rapidly turned the handle, said, "You don't need to beg, queerboy. I was intending to stretch the shit out of you anyway." Again he chuckled, and then when my feet cleared the floor, and I whimpered as the pain shot through my shoulders, he laughed out loud. Again and again he winched me higher, until my feet were at least 12" above the floor. As is normal in that circumstance, my body began to rotate slowly as the rope released its tension by unwinding a small amount.

As the slow spinning brought me around to face him once more, I saw he was walking back toward me, carrying something in his hand. I tried to keep my eyes focused on him, to see what it was he had, but again the rotation turned my back to him. When I once again could look in his direction, the tears welling from my eyes made it difficult to see much more than the fact that he was holding what looked to be a coiled rope.

He gripped my erection firmly to hold me in place, then reached up to wipe away my tears. I could then see that what he was holding were actually two separate coils of small-diameter rope, and each had its own hangman's noose tied at one end. As he held them up for my inspection, he chuckled again, then said, "The little woman sure loves her nooses, don't she?" Then, before I could think of any sort of reply, he dropped to his knees in front of me and quickly removed the cuffs that had been shackling my legs. He then slipped one noose around my right ankle, and the other around my left ankle.

After dropping one of the ropes to the floor, he walked to my right while paying out the cord which was attached to that ankle. The end was fed through an eyebolt that had been screwed into the wood floor, and when he pulled it taut before tying it in place, my right leg was pulled out so far that my whole body moved sideways.

That part accomplished, he then repeated the operation with the other leg rope, also pulling it as tight as possible before securing it to an identical eyebolt to my left. The result, as you can imagine, was that my legs were spread far apart, and probably quite a bit farther apart than I'd ever had them. I loved the feeling of vulnerability that the position gave me, and knew that my cock and balls were displayed and ready for anything he chose to do to me. What that thing was to be became evident when he walked to the barbecue, picked up a can of starter fluid, and, after liberally dousing the chunks of charcoal, set them afire.

As the flames shot up, he laughed once more, then said, "I want to show you my branding iron, queerboy. I had it made special to mark all my property, and now that's you, ain't it?" He took one of the metal tools from its rack and brought it for my inspection, holding it close to my face so I could see it clearly.

The branding iron was fashioned in the shape of the letter "H," and he explained its meaning to me. He said, "All my friends call me 'Handsome Harry,' so that's the brand I use on my property. I'm going to brand both your butt cheeks, so that anyone who sees you will know who you belong to. Nice, huh?" He then returned to the barbecue, where the flames had subsided to a steady burning, and I could see that some of the chunks of charcoal were already turning a dull red. He placed the branding iron on the charcoal, then began to remove his clothes, as I had hoped he would do. I sincerely enjoy looking at a naked man as he punishes me, seeing his erect manhood swaying and becoming harder and harder as he does things to me. He said, "'Spose I'd better get undressed. Adele don't like it when I get blood on my clothes." He quickly removed all his clothes, allowing me to once again stare at his fully-erect cock.

As soon as he was completely undressed, he walked to the display panel. When he returned, he was carrying something that I dearly love to have used on me. My lover who liked to tie me to his X-beam had one that was nearly identical, and I knew that I would soon be experiencing the sort of pain-pleasure cycle that I crave. He was carrying a type of whip known as a "cat," which is a shortened form of "cat-o-nine-tails." It was really nothing other than a black leather handle about one foot long, with nine strips of leather attached to it. Such a simple thing, actually, but in the hands of someone who knew how to use it, it could cause excruciating pain when skillfully applied to the tender areas of a man's body. I was sure my torturer was one of those people who fell into that category. At least, I hoped he was.

He swished the whip through the air in a menacing manner as he stood in front of me. After he had teased me long enough, he said, "I'm afraid daddy's gonna have to teach you a lesson, queerboy. We can't have you faggots running around and making decent people do nasty things like cumming down their throats, now can we? I'm gonna give you what you been needin' for a long time."

Saying nothing else, he walked around behind me, and the pain in my shoulders and tightly-stretched crotch was forgotten as my whole body tingled in anticipation. The fulfillment of my wishes was soon in coming, and it was announced by the whistle of the thongs as they flew through the air. Liquid fire then erupted across both of my butt cheeks, and I knew if I could see that part of my body, there would be several white lines rapidly turning to a bright red, indicating exactly where the leather strips had landed.

The first stroke of a whipping is the most intense thing ever, and if you've been whipped, you know exactly what I mean. The following strokes may be just as strong, or even stronger, but they never have that certain type of shock that is experienced with the first one. That was certainly the case right then, and it was far beyond my ability to stifle the cry that broke from my throat.

I was quickly given several more lashings across my rear end, and then he moved up to my shoulders, giving them the same treatment. Each stroke was slightly lower, and I didn't need to look in a mirror to know that my back was covered by a mass of stripes and welts, each one growing more intense in color and greater in size with each passing second. As had always happened, by the time I'd been given about a dozen strokes, I seemed to enter a state of euphoria. I've read that's due to my brain releasing something called "endorphins" into my bloodstream, but I really don't care about any sort of explanation. It's enough that it happens, and that it's one of the most addicting experiences you can ever imagine.

I expected him to once again whip my butt, but instead he dropped from my waist to my ankles, then worked his way up both wide-stretched legs, marking them just as he had done to my back. When he reached my cheeks once again, he must have changed the direction of his strokes, as the lashes began to fall inside my wide-open crack. Again and again he whipped my butthole, laughing almost insanely as my lust caused me to do my best to push that part toward him.

Finally he tired of punishing that part of my body, and moved around to stand in front of me once again. His labored breathing demonstrated how hard he had worked in whipping me, and his bobbing penis, with a glistening drop of cum on the tip, showed how much he had enjoyed it. I've always experienced a narrowing of my field of vision when someone whips me, almost as if there's nothing else in the whole world other than the man or woman who is punishing me. It was the same way then, and I had eyes only for my torturer, and the wonderful thing he held in his strong hands, and the even more wonderful thing between his legs. I loved seeing the evidence of his arousal, knowing that in some small way my body had contributed to it.

Continued in Chapter 3.