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Image for the poem IT WAS WILD chapter 1 part 2 of 5

IT WAS WILD chapter 1 part 2 of 5

 
IT WAS WILD chapter 1 part 2 of 5

“Thanks for the commentary on my love life, but I’m really not in the mood.”

“Ah, c’mon, I need a ride and you need some time away from that factory of yours.”

“What is the matter, Troy? Mom needs her car tonight?”

Troy was thirty, just like me, and he still lived with his mother. That alone was enough to make him the laughingstock of our crowd of friends. I wondered not for the first time how someone as lazy and irresponsible as Troy had become such a good friend.

“Geez, Sean—I do not want to fight. I can do that with my old lady anytime. Let us go out and have an enjoyable time.” I remember sighing as I saved my work and shut the computer down, making a decision that would prove to be more important and life-changing than I realized at the time.

The party was just a block off Route 422 in Collegeville—about half a mile from the Ursinus College campus. I never did meet the couple who owned the house, but I did have a few drinks and meet several good-looking women. I was about to look for Troy when I walked through the living room. There, trying futilely to deal with some drunk, was the hottest woman I had seen in months if not longer. She had a rack that just would not quit and an ass to match. I was up to her when she threw her purse to the floor and stamped her foot in frustration. “God damn it, Michael.”

“The problem,” I asked innocently.

“It is my useless boyfriend. All he does is get drunk and pass out. Linda told me I could put him in one of the guest rooms to sleep it off, but I cannot do anything with him.”

“Not a problem,” I told her as I grabbed one wrist and pulled him into a fireman’s carry. He was a lightweight, probably not more than 140 pounds. Silently, I carried the drunk up the stairs, following the hot babe into one of the rooms where I easily dropped him onto a bed. I walked downstairs and was out the door when I realized the babe was just a step behind me.

“Excuse me,” she said tentatively. “Thanks, but I don’t know your name.”

“Sean…Sean Sloan, and yours?”

“I am Lori Canning and thanks. I never would have been able to do anything with that useless idiot. Can I ask you for one more favor? I need a ride home. I do not even have money for a cab or even for Uber. Please?”

“Where do you live?”

“In Pottstown, on the east side in the big apartment complex on Forest Drive.”

“I know where that is. Sure, it is on my way to Gilbertsville.” I held the door for her and led her out to my truck. It belonged to my company—Sean Sloan Fabrications. My logo was on the door. I held it open as I commented, “I suppose that I should look for my friend, Troy, but truthfully, I haven’t seen him for more than an hour.”

We talked as we drove. I learned that she was a teller at one of the local banks. The apartment complex was a bit rundown which I thought was about right for her. I knew that tellers were not highly paid even though they had a lot of responsibility for thousands of dollars every day. I was not expecting anything from her, but I did walk her to the door to make sure she could get in safely. She invited me in, but I turned her down telling her that I had to get up early. “Will you wait here for just a minute?”

I stood on the welcome mat while she hurried in, returning a minute later with a small sheet of paper—her name and number. “Call me, will you? You are obviously several steps up from my soon-to-be loser ex.” She reached up then to kiss my cheek. After other thanks, she closed the door and I returned to my truck. Thus, began what I thought was an incredible relationship—one filled with love and mutual respect and lots of hot sex. Now I realized that it had all been a hoax. The entire thing was created and designed to enslave me—nothing more.

I was taken by surprise when Marge dropped a large dog’s choke collar over my head, pulling me up from my seated position. I had two choices—get up and follow or sit and choke to death. I followed her into the garage where she pushed me into her car’s trunk. Once the lid was closed, I allowed myself to smile. These people were idiots—absolute fucking idiots. Their plot was doomed to failure for several key reasons.

First, my dad had been a varsity wrestling coach at Boyertown Area High School for more than thirty years. He began training me when I was three and even, and he said I was the most determined wrestler he had ever known. I never quit—not in the classroom, not on the mat, and not at anything else, either. I had never quit then and I would not quit now. I was sure I would be tortured—forced to endure a great deal of pain—but all that would do was really make me angry and make me even more determined to get my revenge.

Second, I owned a metal fabricating company. I could get out of this monstrosity on my cock and balls in an hour or less as soon as I went to work, and I had people working for me who could do it even quicker. If they thought, I would be too embarrassed they obviously did not know me very well. This thing was held together by two bolts that needed an irregular wrench. The wrench would not have to be perfect. I only needed it to work once and I would be free.

And third, was my secret, something only my parents knew. It was an accident when I was eight. I got careless while riding my new bike. The front tire caught in a storm drain and the bike twisted around. I was thrown off, my lower back striking the concrete curb. It was seen by a neighbor who phoned the police and my mother. I spent three days in the hospital going through a full battery of tests. Bottom line—my lower body would function normally just a bit slower, and I would still feel pain, but at less than half of what anyone else would experience. I had been extremely careful to avoid injury from my abdomen down. Now my accident might save my life.

I lived in Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania, right off Route 73. From the direction Mistress Marge—that is right, in what I thought was a total cliché, she told me that is what she was to be called--had driven I was quite sure she had gone west on seventy-three past Boyertown into the farm country beyond. We had stopped at the last traffic light about fifteen minutes ago by my reckoning, so I assumed we were somewhere near Mana tawny or Oley. We turned a few seconds later and I knew we were off a public road by the crunching gravel under the wheels. My thoughts were confirmed when Marge opened the trunk, and I could see that we were in an old, abandoned barn. There was a big hole at the rear where the roof had collapsed and, on the floor, there was plenty of evidence that the area had been taken over by animals.

Then I saw two things that I knew were meant for me. Hanging from a huge roughhewn beam at least twelve inches on a side was a sturdy steel chain. Looking up I could see that one of the links had been secured to the beam by three thick heavy-duty staples. There was no way I would be able to pull them out no matter how strong I might be. The other thing was a big steel dog cage about three by three and four feet deep.

"Mistress” Marge gave the leash a strong tug and I tumbled out of the trunk. A minute later she had pulled my arms and wrists up to padlock them to the chain. My arms were up so high that there was a serious strain on my shoulders. All the same, I thought I could manage the position easily until she tied my ankles off to ring bolts that had been sunk into the hard dirt floor. Someone had done a lot of planning for this and, if I had to guess, it would have to be Marge. She was by far the smartest of the four. My position was much worse when my ankles were spread about five feet apart. My shoulders, strong as they were, ached from the stress placed on them.

“I am going to break you, Sean—turn you into a cipher that will exist only to follow Lori’s orders to the letter. I plan to whip you four or five hours a day until the pain is unbearable and then I am going to whip you repeatedly. I have done this before with my loser husband. His cock and balls were caged much like yours are now. I used to shock him regularly, sometimes just for the fun of it. I never let him cum, and he obviously never fucked me. No—his job was to work and make money for me to spend then to come home and cook dinner before cleaning the house and sleeping in a cage like this at the foot of my bed. Then he would do the same thing repeatedly—day after day, month after month, year after year. I had a life of ease, spending my time at a spa or getting fucked by some handsome stranger, just if he had a big dick. That is the life facing you now. I am really going to enjoy this.”

Then the whipping began. She continued at a rapid pace, covering my lower back, butt, and thighs with welts that were bleeding long before she was done. I readily admit that I cried and begged for mercy even though I knew I would receive none. She continued for more than an hour, stopping only I assumed because she was tired. I saw her hang the bloody whip on a nail as she walked to her car. A minute later she returned with a big sponge and a bottle of vinegar.

“I can’t let you get an infection, can I?” She paused to laugh insanely. “And to think I’ll be able to watch it over and over with Lori and Michael—the destruction of a local hero.” And then she laughed again. I swore then I would get her and make her suffer even more than I would. I did not know how yet, but I would.

She made a production of soaking the sponge with vinegar then she wiped it over my sweating face. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and kept them closed to protect my vision. A few minutes later she cackled as she wiped the raw areas of my back, butt, and thighs. It stung, but not as badly as I thought it would even though thousands of raw nerve endings were exposed from the whipping. I had just opened my eyes to see Marge squeeze the sponge to allow my blood to drip onto the dirt in front of me.

To be continued
nutbuster
Written by nutbuster (D C)
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