IT WAS WILD chapter 1 part 3 of 5

IT WAS WILD chapter 1 part 3 of 5

“Is not this great! There is plenty left for the rest of the week or even longer.” She walked back to the car and a minute later she had backed out, for lunch on my dime.

I knew that all rope had some degree of stretch so I pulled down with my shoulders so I could move my legs closer together, if possible. Ten minutes later I had gained an inch in each rope. It was not much, but it was enough that I could shift the burden of my weight to my legs rather than my shoulders. The relief was immediate, and I stayed like that until I heard Marge’s car return. Then I resumed my prior position. The stress on my shoulders was as severe as it was immediate.

Marge strolled in without a care, carrying two big dog bowls, a gallon of water, and a take-out box from The Pit Stop, one of Boyertown’s best and favorite steak houses. “Get used to eating and drinking like this, slave. It is the only way you will get anything for the next two weeks. You will eat breakfast and dinner like this at home, but I suppose you will be permitted a sandwich and bottle of water when you go to work. Forget about going out to lunch. You will not be able to leave your office without Lori’s permission. You will no doubt learn that the hard way, but that is okay. I enjoy watching you suffer.”

She placed the bowls in front of me and filled one with water. Into the other, she dropped what I thought were the leavings of her lunch—fat and gristle from a hunk of prime rib and a few pieces of baked potato skins. Walking behind me she unlocked the padlock that had held me in place. Falling with a thump to the floor, I attacked the fat, knowing something that Marge did not—fat has more calories and nutrients than any other food type. It did not taste incredibly good, but I did not care. I needed the strength to survive. I finished by lapping up every drop of the water.

Marge pulled me up by the leash and seconds later I was padlocked in the same position I had been in earlier. She left me there while she returned the bowls to her car. Turning my head, I saw that everything was being recorded for future amusement. The whipping continued in earnest as soon as she returned.

She stopped several times, breathing heavily from the exhaustion. I wondered then what might happen if she had a heart attack. As much as I wanted her dead, I was afraid that I would join her long before a passer-by might find us.

She washed me down with vinegar again once she was done then she led me by the leash to the cage. She forced me to back in and locked the leash tightly to one of the bars in the cage’s top. “Good thinking, Marge; if I fall asleep, I will strangle myself. I am no good to you dead, am I?” This time it was my turn to laugh. “Even worse, even a blind coroner would be able to figure out how I died and once they learn that Michael went on my honeymoon with Lori they’ll know exactly where to look for my killer.”

Marge gave the matter a little thought before unlocking the padlock and pulling the choke collar over my head. The padlock was used to secure the cage and she turned to go. “I told Lori not to sign that damned prenup. Without that, we could arrange a little accident in the woods…hunting. Lori looks good in black. Then we could sell your business and live on easy street for the rest of our lives.” No, I was not of any use to them dead. My will left everything I owned to my parents and to my sister, Gail. Under the prenup, Lori was unable to get her hands on my business under any circumstances—death, divorce, or even if I mysteriously disappeared. Thanks, Dad—that was a great idea.

I watched Marge disappear through the barn’s door. Her final words were, “It will get just cold enough tonight to make you extremely uncomfortable, and I am sure the insects will eat you alive. I will break you easily. You are even softer than I had thought. Sleep well, slave.” Then she cackled again, her laugh reminding me of Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz.”

There was no pad in the cage and the space was tight, so I was lying on the rigid steel bars no matter how I tried to position myself. I finally found a minimally uncomfortable position on my right side. Even then I had to be careful not to press my back against the bars on the side. I did that several times in my shallow sleep, waking me immediately. The flies and mosquitoes feasted on my raw back and butt all night.

That first day set the pattern for the next four days. Marge would show up mid-morning and whip me for two to three hours then leave me hanging while she went to lunch. I was fed her scraps and I always ate everything she gave me and drank all the water. After lunch, she would whip me again for hours before my vinegar bath and lock me away in the night.

Then, on the fifth day, she introduced something new—what she called “dildo training.” She forced a big rubber dildo into my mouth, shocking my balls repeatedly when I either refused or showed reluctance, which was every time. Either my body was growing accustomed to the shocks, or the battery was running down, but the shocks much less than I had that first morning when Lori had surprised me.

Truthfully, I barely felt the whipping after the third day. My body was numb from the thousands of welts the whip had caused. I could understand how a normal man who experienced a normal range of pain could be destroyed by this treatment, but I was even more stubborn than I had been when this torture had begun. Then on the eighth day, there was another change.

I had moved my bowels and emptied my bladder every night whether I wanted to or not. My lower body reeked from the coating of shit and my upper body stunk from sweat. Instead of whipping me, Marge proceeded to wash me down from head to toe. She used a combination of vinegar and water and then poured several gallons of water over my body to rinse me clean. She left once she was done, returning sometime later.

First, she made sure that the choke collar was tight around my neck then she untied the ropes around my ankles and opened the padlock that secured my wrists to the chain. I was able to stand for the first time in a week as she led me shakily to her car. There was a plastic shower curtain in the trunk, and she had to push me in, lifting my legs to get my entire body inside. The last thing I saw before she closed the trunk was the burned-out farmhouse. I thought that might be important someday and I was right.

I tried to pay attention to the route she drove. I was quite sure we were heading back to my house from the direction of our travel and the lights we stopped for. I had lived in this area all my life, and I could easily visualize every turn in my mind. I was sure we were in my garage when Marge stopped the car. I saw that I was right when the trunk lid rose.

Between my handcuffed wrists and my weak legs, it was impossible for me to get out of the trunk without help. Using the leash, she led me into my family room where she locked the leash tightly around one of the supports that held the main steel beam of the house in place.

I waited there patiently even though I had no choice. It was more comfortable than the barn and the temperature was exactly 70 degrees thanks to a dehumidifying heat pump I had installed when the house was built. I was there for some time, Marge walking back down the stairs after I heard the doorbell ring. She walked out to the garage, returning a minute later with the video camera and tripod which she set off to the side of the room. That told me that she had planned something important.

Next, she led me by the leash to the center of the family room, pulling me down to kneel on the hard tiled floor. I watched silently as Troy walked down. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed wildly at his outfit. He wore a hideous brown and green striped long-sleeved shirt over red, white, and blue plaid shirts with high black socks and tan sandals. Nobody ever claimed that Troy was a good dresser or exhibited any fashion sense.

“You need to practice, slave, on the real thing—sucking a real cock and swallowing. Troy’s quite a bit smaller than Michael, but he will do for now and I am sure he wants some revenge for all the slights you have inflicted on him over the years.” I knelt silently while Troy lowered his shorts and briefs, a huge smirk on his face. I resolved at that second to wipe that smirk all over his sorry face at the first opportunity.

I am quite a bit taller than Troy and even kneeling my mouth was much higher than Troy’s cock. I thought I might be able to use this to my advantage. I moved forward seemingly to suck, but falling instead on my right shoulder, a quite easy fall for an experienced wrestler. Marge and Troy lifted me back into position and once again I moved forward only to drop, my shoulder breaking my fall. They tried it two more times with the same result. I was reminded of Einstein’s definition of idiocy—doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

“This is not working, Marge. We must do something else.”

“Maybe if I move his hands around to the front of his body, he’ll be able to support himself that way.”

“Okay, let’s try that.” Marge opened the cuff on my left wrist, and I quickly moved my hands to the floor, but far enough away from each other that they could not be coupled together again. Troy wanted his cock in my mouth so that is what I gave him, but no sooner had the head cleared my teeth than I clamped down firmly, my teeth cutting through the sensitive tissue. “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! PLEASE, MAKE HIM STOP! PLEASE! PLEASE MAKE HIM STOP!”

I finally released him, spitting his blood all over his shirt as I pushed myself up quickly to stand in front of Troy. I knew that he had a glass jaw. He had been fresh, putting his hands in places a gentleman does not, with Sara Jane Fulmer at a party in tenth grade and she decked him with a single punch. Troy never had lived that down. I gave him a good quick punch, swinging from my shoulder and following through. He dropped like a rock.

Marge had been shocking me, but I felt nothing. I had so much adrenaline coursing through my body that I could have survived anything. She also tried to choke me, but I had turned my head, protecting my throat with the powerful muscles at the sides and back of my neck.

Once Troy was down, I turned to face Marge, my tormenter—my Torquemada. It was not much to pull the leash from her hand. For every step I took forward she took one fearful step back until her legs hit the table in front of the couch. “You wouldn’t hit a woman,” she asked, her voice shaking as much as her body. She never saw it coming. Once again, I swung from my shoulder, the punch traveling only a foot before it contacted her temple and following through for another eighteen inches. She was out cold before her head struck the floor.

To be continued