The Groaning Times Chapter 7: Harnessed Agony

PLEASE NOTE: Readers who are new to this series and desire more background may want to start with “The Groaning Times: Prologue” and work through the chapters from there.]

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My Lacrosse teammates were now “hitched” liked draft horses to each of the four wagons. Yes, we were tethered by our privates to the vehicles that bore these symbols of our transgression against the underclass. I later learned that the plum trees had been sent all the way from Asia as gifts in Tai’s honor. And it was clear that we were to ferry these gifts to their final destination with all the pomp and circumstance befitting this little girl’s exalted status.

I wondered if little Tai, who could not even see us from her limousine, had any notion of the agony embodied in the spectacle behind her. I wondered if she knew that our balls had been strapped tight enough to ache before even we pulled the wagons (although fortunately not tight enough to shut off the blood supply to our genitals). I wondered if she, at age 7, could comprehend the sheer labor we faced in her behalf. And this was but the first of the many labors and trials that would be required in her honor, trials that would bring ruin to many penises and testicles and unbearable aches to thousands of others.

Obviously, Tai’s brothers saw no need to trouble their little sister with such weighty matters. Clearly, her comfort and enjoyment were paramount on this day, whereas our discomfort and shame were of no concern. We, the sons of the once mighty WASP elite, had become the naked beasts of burden for the little Asian girl’s treasures.

We waited for the parade to get underway as Tai’s brothers and the rest of the crowd taunted us about the “snootiness” of our prep school and my Lacrosse team’s role in the affront to the little girl. With mock concern, they pointed at our harnessed genitals and asked us if our “plums” hurt or if our “Bratwurst sausages” were uncomfortable. Teenaged girls of every non-Anglo racial group made faces at us and chanted, “PETER SAUSAGE! PETER SAUSAGE! PETER SAUSAGE!”

I bit my lip, wondering if my balls could endure this trek. Justin and Brent, who were also hitched to my cart, stared down between their legs and seemed to be praying for strength.

I looked down to see that the strap had pulled the nylon taut over my still-erect shaft, giving my sling the shape of my penis. I could see Yali and some other little girls staring at it. Our harnesses definitely afforded them a much clearer picture of our dicks.

It was so humiliating. The little girls and boys gawked at us as if we were a strange breed of oxen. Tai’s brother Francois joked that we needed “bits” in our mouths like horses.

I prayed for this parade to commence. The sooner it got moving, the sooner it would finish. The relentless pressure of the harness was making my testicles increasingly ache, and I knew that the ache wouldn’t cease until our journey was over and the harness removed.

But Tai’s brothers delayed to let the crowd continue to view and torment us. Some little boys soon came up to inspect our harnesses. They even knelt to look up between our legs, to see exactly how we were attached to the wagons. Small hands tugged on our straps, making our stiff cocks jiggle in our slings. The power of the Tingleroot never ceased to amaze me. We were still stonily erect after all this.

Sometimes little girls accompanied the boys on these inspections. I saw one little Hispanic boy who appeared to be about 8. He was leading a cute, curly haired little girl by the hand. She looked like his baby sister. The two stopped in front of me, right in front of my protruding nylonned cock. As his wide-eyed sister stood by sucking her thumb, the boy jiggled my big penis head and told her, “That’s his peener, Rosie. That’s what goes tinkle.”

The little boy then smiled proudly and said, “I made big boys like him wait a long time to do their wee wees from their peeners! They had to be real nice and beg me a lot too.”

I was speechless with humiliation. I remembered the little boy now. He was one of the kids holding our dicks at the urinals. It looked as if he had boasted to his little sister about his mastery of that agonizing process.

The little girl looked shyly at my dick and said, “That’s a peener?”

Her brother said, “Yeah, this is his big ugly white peener.”

She eyed my glans and said, “It goes wee wee?”

The little boy said, “Yeah, it goes wee-wee a lot, but only if he says please!”

The little girl wrinkled her nose, frowned, and said, “Ugh! I don’t like white peeners! They’re too hairy!”

A Hispanic teenaged boy who was standing nearby laughed and told the little girl, “Well, pretty little senorita, if you don’t like his big hairy white peener, then maybe we need to make him give his cock up for peter sausage!”

Both the little boy and his sister giggled wildly. Of course, I was appalled that the children of the underclass were becoming so comfortable with insinuations about Anglo penis amputation. I truly felt reduced to the level of livestock at that point.

Testicles throbbing, we waited for Lao’s command. The mob was also impatient for the parade to begin, eager to see if we could haul those carts with our genitals. They began clapping their hands and chanting, “PULL, WHITE SLAVES, PULL! PULL! PULL! PULL PRINCESS TAI’S TREES WITH YOUR BIG HAIRY PETERS!”

Little Tai Vu would be the one to initiate the parade. Someone had handed her a toy cap gun as a “starter” pistol. Finally, her delicate little hand rose above the flowers draping the back of the limo. Her tiny yellow finger then squeezed the trigger, causing us 3,000 naked white teens to take our first barefooted step towards slavery.

The first steps were hard for those of us harnessed to the wagons. The harness tugged on our already tender balls and pulled our erect penises painfully downward as we struggled to overcome the inertia of the carts. But, after much wincing and sweating, the wheels began to roll. We stepped steadily, not wanting the wagons ever to stop. We didn’t want to deal with that inertia again.

I wondered if the world had ever seen a procession such as this, even in a Roman triumph. It was also such a breathtakingly radical turnabout. For the first time in history, we whites were marching to slavery, chained and naked and in our thousands, before people who had been traditionally considered the “oppressed.”

The scene left me feeling so powerless that I felt, in a sense, liberated. As I listened to the taunts and cheers, I thought that our upper-class sins must have been great for the wheel of history to roll over us like this. I began to feel that it was the duty of my generation to endure this great comeuppance.

And what a comeuppance it proved to be as we headed into the heart of the ghetto. There the crowds were huge, with people thronging the sidewalks, hanging out of windows, and standing on the rooftops of low tenements. These mobs cheered at the first sight of Tai and threw flowers in the path of her limo. They were calling her “princess.”

But they booed and tormented us. For example, little boys cast handfuls of sharp gravel in our path. Our toes cringed as our tender bare soles felt those stones. The little boys also ran up and held the backs of our wagons, making us stop and then start the painful pulling process again. Every step became an agony for our testicles. Yet, Tai’s limousine simply kept moving into the heart of the teeming underclass ghetto.

As we struggled down the middle of the street behind Tai’s vehicle, huge gatherings of young teenaged girls wearing a mixture Western and ethnic dress chanted, “PETER SAUSAGE! PETER SAUSAGE! PETER SAUSAGE!” The phrase seemed to be on every female’s lips.

Then we passed through a heavily Hispanic section of the city. As salsa music reverberated from the tenements, teenaged girls and little boys ran up and stuffed crushed Jalapano peppers in the slings of the teens marching in the ranks behind us. I heard their muffled exclamations and groans as the fiery juices burned their tender glans and shafts. The Hispanic girls then taunted the boys about their “hot Anglo cocks.” Yet, the teens had to keep marching as the ferocious peppers rubbed their genitals. I began to appreciate the power of the sling as a punishment device. Fortunately, the harnesses prevented stuffing anything in our slings, or surely we would have been pulling the wagons with pepper burns to complement our aching testicles.

All this agony of pulling and marching occurred behind the flower-bedecked limousine of a 7-year old girl from a dirt-poor Southeast Asian village. With breathtaking speed, this new world had become little Tai Vu’s oyster.

I noticed with surprise that we still hadn’t turned east in the direction of the county prison, but instead kept heading south through the inner city towards the encircling interstate highway. When we finally passed beneath an elevated portion of that highway, our final destination became clear. It was spread out before us. We were not to be imprisoned in the county correctional facility after all. Instead, our new “home” was to be the colossal Indoor Sports Complex, which had opened just five years earlier. This was a modern and massive facility, large enough to host international competitions in multiple sports simultaneously, all under a series of climate-controlled domes. Most impressive was its Grand Arena, built to seat 75,000 spectators. This facility was made for viewing.

I also noticed that the Complex had new name across its entrance: THE PRINCESS TAI VU PRISON FOR THE REEDUCATION OF TEENAGED ANGLO BOYS.

Our procession was finally ordered to a halt, and we waited for the main gate to open. Tai’s limo soon pulled off to the right and departed. Apparently the “princess” was not going in at this time. But we were, and our stomachs churned with anxiety over the selection of this “mother of all arenas” as our new home.

[Comments welcome and appreciated as always]

[Next: Chapter 8]