Chapter 3

As his breathing slowed and his eyes lost most of their glazed look, he said softly, "I'm gonna hurt you real bad now, queerboy. You're really gonna love this part." He then drew back his whip hand, and when it shot forward, it wasn't aimed at my crotch, as I'd hoped, but at the sole of my right foot!

There is no way I can describe the searing agony that instantly shot up my leg as the thongs struck that previously virgin flesh. Never in my life had I been whipped there, and never in my life had I imagined anything could be so painful. The only thing that kept me from losing consciousness was the drug my brain had been providing, but even with that, the scream that erupted from my throat was the loudest and longest ever. My eyes were instantly blinded by an outpouring of fresh tears, and my head thrashed from side to side in an attempt to allow me to see once again.

At last my vision cleared, and I saw my tormentor standing there laughing. He looked directly at my crotch, then said, "Fucking wimp!" I did my best to focus on that part of my body, and was shocked to see that my previously rock-hard penis was wilting. Never before had a whipping done more than cause the thing to lose a small amount of stiffness, but its condition now was testimony to the kind of pain I'd been given.

As he sneered at me, he began using the handle of the whip to caress my penis, and as the throbbing in my foot subsided a small amount, his attentions had the usual effect. In just a few seconds, I could see my cock began to once again fill with blood, and come back to full stiffness. He said, "That's better. Now keep the damn thing that way, or it's coming off." That threat alone would have been enough to cause me to reach maximum arousal, and it's been that way for several years. Somehow, just hearing someone say they're going to remove my penis has the effect of making me hotter than anything else. Predictably enough, it produced the same reaction then, and soon my dick was once again bobbing up and down.

He stepped back, then took obvious delight in carefully aiming the whip at my other foot, all the time telling me that if I couldn't "keep it up" he was going to take care of my "little problem." That threat, combined with the fact that I now knew what to expect, kept me from losing my hardon when he whipped the sole of my left foot. The agonizing pain was just as great, but my warped brain was able to equate it with the pain from other whippings I've been given, and after that it was much more acceptable. It didn't have the sexual element that being whipped on other parts of my body did, but I knew that part would not be long in coming.

When he saw that I was staying hard for him, he began to work his way up each leg, stopping just short of my balls. Tiring of that, he moved his aim higher, and my useless tits soon felt his wrath. As he swung the whip, he said over and over, "Push them out. Show me how much you like it." Of course, I was helpless to disobey him, since my body had been doing that all on its own for a long time. I've always liked having my tits punished, and that part, too, probably dates back to when my cousin used to tease them with small branchess from trees.

I was in so much ecstasy from having my tits whipped that I didn't even realize my eyes were tightly closed, allowing me to concentrate on the pain and pleasure I was being given. When the thongs began to work their way down my midsection, though, I quickly opened them so I could watch.

One thing I dearly love to watch is my penis being whipped, and my state of extreme arousal right then made it all the more exciting. When the thongs at last impacted against that tender part of my body, I was mesmerized by the way they left white lines behind them, and then as they turned to a bright red, how the jolt of pain shot up the shaft and burst in my abdomen.

I've never been able to stop myself from crying out as I'm being whipped, even though that has angered many of my lovers, of both sexes. I've always had a ball gag in my "toy bag," as I call the briefcase full of things I like them to use on me. Being allowed to give voice to my agony is something I've always found more exciting than being gagged, and the fact that my torturer now seemed to enjoy my cries as much as I did made everything even more exciting. Every time the thongs landed on my wildly-jumping cock, I would scream in pain, and that made him strike me even harder with the next blow. We were well-matched, I guess.

Over and over he whipped my engorged manhood, until at last I saw the most-exciting part of all: the welts swelling like monstrous bee stings, and then beginning to seep blood as the thongs tore the flesh. By the time that happens, I am so far gone that there is no more pain. It's all pleasure, and I want nothing more than to stay in that condition forever.

As I watched, he changed the direction of his strokes, and I knew he was ready to punish his final target. He lowered his arm, flicked the thongs behind him, and then brought the whip whistling forward and upward. The lashes seemed to move in slow motion as they approached my widespread crotch, and then as they at last found my unprotected balls, I truly entered a state of ecstasy. There is no way I can describe the agonizing pain I feel when my nuts are whipped, other than to say that it's almost overwhelming. Even with that, though, I knew what I was feeling then was not quite as intense as when my feet had been punished. It was a different type of pain, I guess, and that's what made it so desirable to me. It was pain from a part of my body that needed to feel that sort of stimulation, whereas pain from my feet was something entirely different.

By the time he reached the limit of his strength, and stood there with his head down, gasping for breath, I was in a semi-conscious state. My throat was raw from giving voice to my pain and agony, and my chest was heaving just as rapidly as was his. Unlike him, though, I wasn't required to make a decision as to what to do next, and that just added another ingredient to my lust. I was his to use as he wanted, and my own wants and wishes meant nothing. All I had to do was exist; no decisions were required of me.

We were both breathing more slowly by the time he finally looked up at me, and I remembered to shake the tears from my eyes so I could see him more clearly. He said, in a voice that was hoarse with emotion, "Damn, queerboy! I don't think whipping one of you ever made me so hot! Look what you done to me, you little bastard!" He then looked down to his crotch, and my eyes followed his.

His delicious cock was jerking up and down just as much as mine was, and the pre-cum was almost boiling from the tip. As we both watched, a drop of the wonderful juice began to slowly fall towards the floor, and it trailed a spider-web thin strand that glistened in the light from the fixture above us.

Again he looked at my face, and his hoarse words were filled with emotion as he said, "You're going to pay for doing this to me, you little cocksucker!" He then dropped the whip to the floor and began to remove the ropes that held my legs so widespread. He then turned away from me, and made his way to the winch. The clicking of the handle was accompanied by my renewed groans as the stress in my shoulders was relieved, and while my feet at last struggled to support my ravaged body, my arms fell uselessly in front, hanging there as if dead. The horrible tingling, itching, and burning in them told me, though, that they were far from being in that condition.

When he returned to stand before me once again, he was holding something I'd seen earlier when he'd allowed me to look at all his wonderful toys. Again, it was a simple thing, but isn't that the way most instruments of torture can be described. In this case, it was nothing more than a wide leather belt, with what looked like a single wrist cuff attached at two locations on it. When he placed the belt around my waist, then fastened the buckle, one cuff was over my right hip and the other was over the left. As expected, as soon as he had removed my wrists from the noose, he secured them in the cuffs, and I was once again his helpless captive.

As the pain in my shoulders began to subside, I began to again notice the burning in the soles of my feet. It had been forgotten before, as I had given all my attention to what I was feeling as my cock and balls were whipped. Now that I was putting all my weight on my feet once again, they told me just how horribly they had been abused.

I had no time to give them more than a fleeting thought before he grabbed my elbow and almost dragged me to a narrow table that was standing nearby. I barely had long enough to see the leather strap that was dangling from one end of the top before he had forced my upper body onto the tabletop, with my face down. The strap was then drawn over my torso and secured to the other end of the table, holding me in place for whatever use he intended.

What that use was to be became clear when my ankles were drawn far to the sides, then strapped to the legs of the table. Since I was secured face down, with my legs once again widespread, and my butt open to his use at the most convenient distance above the floor, there was little doubt as to what his intentions were. Again, that old familiar thrill surged through my body as I anticipated being used for the pleasure of another man.

The urgency of his need for relief was evident in how quickly he moved to stand behind me, and in the way his chest was heaving. He didn't have time for preliminaries, and no thought was given to making the situation more comfortable for me. He merely aimed his erection at the target I presented, and rammed it deeply inside me. Both of us cried out, but probably for different reasons. He was obviously taking a great deal of pleasure in raping me, but the speed of the insertion gave me so much pain that I momentarily forgot about my aching feet and throbbing genitals.

Through my mental haze, I heard him gasp, "You little fucker! You got me so hot that I can't last!" He withdrew himself with a quick motion, then almost ran around the table to stand in front of me. He grabbed my hair and yelled out, "Hurry!" I knew what he wanted, and opened my mouth to its widest extent just in time to allow him to enter. As he had raped my bottom just moments before, he now raped my mouth, and it lasted for an even shorter time. Barely seconds after I had closed my lips around his manhood, he began to spurt, and the force of it was mute evidence of his extreme arousal. As for me, I was once again lost in that semi-conscious state that always envelops me when a man is feeding me his boiling hot, wonderful semen.

At last his urgent spurts subsided, and he put his hands on my back to add support to his weak legs. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, struggling to slow his breathing. I could feel his penis shrinking, even though I was doing my best to stimulate him with my tongue. He seemed to be enjoying my efforts to lick and suck him as clean as possible, which I have always liked to do after my lover has fed me his cum. Too many men can't stand to have their penises touched after they have ejaculated, and I was overjoyed that he wasn't one of them.

Far too soon, he withdrew his shriveling member from my eager mouth. He immediately grabbed a fistful of my hair and jerked my head up until I was looking in his face. I could see an expression of anger on his face, which hurt me. I had tried my best to give him as much pleasure as possible, but his reaction told me I had failed.

He hissed angrily, "You queerboys are all alike, ain't you? You think that all you have to do is suck a man off to make him just like you, don'cha? Well, that's not gonna work with me. I think you need to be taught a real lesson now."

He released his grip on my hair, then walked rapidly to the barbecue and its bed of glowing, red-hot coals. With no hesitation he picked up the branding iron that he had placed there earlier, then just as rapidly walked back toward me. As he walked, he held the thing in front of him, knowing that I was watching him, and dreading what he was going to do next. The "H" on the end of the thing was glowing a dull red as he approached, and a wisp of smoke trailed behind it as he neared.

He disappeared behind me, and as I tried to look back over my shoulder to see what he was going to do to me, he snarled, "I always mark my property, queerboy. And now that's just what I'm going to do to you." Even before he had finished speaking those words, he touched the glowing end of the branding iron to my right butt cheek. I felt a flash of searing pain, and then knew nothing else as the blackness overcame me.

My next memory was of my face being forcefully slapped, and a voice saying sharply, "Wake the fuck up, you damn wimp! Whaddya mean by passing out on me? You didn't even feel the second branding, did you?" I struggled to understand his words, but the horrible burning agony in my entire body wouldn't let my brain work. My eyes were so filled with tears that I could barely see, and my entire being was focused on struggling to win my release from the cuffs that restrained my arms, and the leather strap that held me securely to the table.

My efforts were in vain, of course, and after an eternity I began to understand that. As the pain subsided to a throbbing, burning, intense suffering, it retreated to just my buttocks. It was then I realized he was kneeling in front of me, and as I lifted my head to look at him, he began kissing my tears away. I was simply frozen in time and space by what he was doing, since it was something I had wanted him to do almost from the first moment I saw him.

As he held my head up with the one handful of hair, his lips moved to mine, and he kissed me with a strength and passion that almost made me pass out once more. After an eternity he pulled away from me, then as he looked deeply into my eyes, I couldn't stop myself from saying fervently, "I love you so much."

His only response was to smile at me, and then to stand and remove the strap that held me in position on the tabletop. He then pulled me to my feet, and when I gasped at the stab of pain from the brands, he just chuckled and said, "Now let's get you back over there so I can work on you some more."

I needed his help to walk, and he half carried me to where he had whipped me an eternity ago. This time, instead of placing me under the noose we'd used before, he guided me to the other one. He told me to stand there and not try to run away, which was something I'd never considered at all. I think he knew I would never do such a thing, for he must have known by then that I needed, I had to have, all the things he'd done so far, and whatever else he intended for me.

He got a short plank that was leaning against a nearby wall of the barn, then brought it back and placed it across the two footstools that were standing under the beam, about 4' apart. As soon as he was satisfied with the arrangment, he helped me to lift my body onto the plank. Again telling me to stand still, he got a short stepladder and brought it back to where I was patiently waiting. He opened the ladder and positioned it close to me, all the time seemingly talking to himself, saying things like, "You really need this, don'cha queerboy. All you queerboys want this to happen. Now you're gonna get exactly what you deserve." I knew he expected no answer from me, and my ravaged throat probably wouldn't have been able to form one, anyway. I just stood there quietly.

At last he was satisfied with the ladder, and he took two steps up it. I watched in rapt fascination as his hands reached for the hangman's noose dangling there, and then reveled in the tender way he slipped it over my head. In the most loving manner possible, he positioned the knot behind my left ear, and then tightened the noose until I could just barely draw breath. After inspecting his handiwork, he got down off the ladder and stood there for a long time looking up at me.

Finally, he sighed loudly, as if he had come to some important decision. He then took one of my ankles in his strong hands and pulled it to the side, positioning it on the footstool there. He did the same with the other ankle, then removed the plank. I watched in fascination as he walked to one of the winches mounted on the wall, and was completely frozen with lust as he began to slowly turn the crank while gazing intently at me. The rope tightened bit by bit, until my body instinctively responded by making my feet stiffen and support itself on just the toes. That seemed to be what he had been waiting for, since he locked the winch handle in place and returned to stand directly in front of me, as if eager to admire his handiwork. Just when I was sure he was going to kick away the stools, he said, "Don't move a bit, queerboy. I want you in a condition to enjoy what comes next." He then turned away and walked to the barbecue, and its bed of red-hot coals.

I watched as if hypnotized as he placed a wire grille over the coals, and then as he took a pan from a hook on the wall and set it on the grille. He opened a door in the wall cabinet, took out a bottle of cooking oil, and poured a liberal amount in the pan. My eyes swiveled back and forth from the heating oil to the man as he walked to the cabinet once again. This time, when he approached me he was carrying a coil of thin wire and a pair of pliers, and my mind raced as I tried to fathom how he would use them on me.

Continued in Chapter 4.