Date: Wed, 23 Sep 2009 21:42:49 -0400 From: Peter Rodman Subject: Tormented By Thousands "It's time." I hear you say the fateful words I've come to dread that doom me to all-too-soon-to-come immersion in some kind of extremely unpleasant (and that's putting it mildly), intense pain experience. Words like agony, suffering, screaming, misery, endurance, and survival flood my mind. We've just had our lunch. As sometimes happens --- but not always --- I've eaten this meal out of a bowl on the floor like a dog in accordance with your wish. I can still taste the last remnants of the huge, delicious load you just shot off into my lucky, eager mouth as I vigorously and aggressively --- just the way you like, want, and expect it --- sucked you off after the lunch meal. By now I've learned very well, too, that I dare not spill, drop, or waste one single drop of your precious nectar --- since the consequence of that mistake is an immediate and swift kick forcefully delivered to my balls --- sometimes several such extremely painful blows, not just one. I'm also in big trouble if I leave any behind and don't completely and thoroughly drain your body of ev'ry last bit of cum that's in it at the time of a suck off. Your dedication to your responsibility to enhance and improve my active cocksucking and passive face fucking-recipient skills and abilities is admirable. Unless I'm in too bad of shape because I'm in recovery mode from what I've endured in a recent pain training session, your fabulous cock usually feeds me several times a day. And if recuperation is the case you take the time to jack yourself off and collect the cum --- often using a condom with an extra large reservoir at the end --- and then generously feed it to me. Or else you add it as a special ingredient to whatever other regular food I'm having, since healthy doses of this special white fluid that's such an essential essence of your male being should definitely promote quicker healing. Actually sucking your amazing and wonderful big dick is not a chore, not something I'm forced to do, grudgingly or in fear and reluctance. At the most basic level, essentially I hunger, crave, lust, and live for your cock. I love and adore your delicious dick and could worship and savor it and your hefty balls with my knowing mouth ev'ry single day for hours on end. It's an honor, privilege, blessing, reward, and treat to suck you off and swallow your cum, and I willingly and happily do so with gusto, enthusiasm, and gratitude. I'm so fortunate to get to do it. If you didn't let me suck your cock that'd be real punishment --- but I sense you enjoy and appreciate the stimulation it gets when your hard dick's in my mouth, and that's a point in my favor --- along with the fact that I never fail to shower the lavish oral attention they so richly deserve upon your marvelous balls as well. And regarding the subject of me eating cum, once again as I blew you after lunch you mentioned the plan of setting things up so I'd go for two entire weeks consuming only cum and drinking nothing but water. Except for the time that I'd be asleep, I'd spend all my waking moments --- all those hours each day --- actively at work getting the one single item in my new diet directly out of its source. It fits right in with the Puritan work ethic, expending personal energy for the reward of the food you eat at your meals --- but my feasting in this case would be continuous without letup. I doubt I could spend all that time on my knees only, so I guess I'd need to rotate through various sucking positions. It'd be a scientific experiment. Would I lose weight or not? Would I need to take vitamins and minerals and other supplements? How many loads of cum in a day would be necessary to leave me not feeling hungry? Would it be possible to suck off that many dicks in one day? At what rate would I have to take them on --- five minutes each? To get to as many dicks as possible to consume as much cum as possible, I can't spend too much time with any one man. You've mentioned the idea of wrapping a wire around my balls and giving me painful electric shocks if I haven't swallowed all of a guy's cum within five minutes. Probably the greatest challenge that stands in the way of this scenario really happening is simply finding enough hung, horny, constantly-producing-cum studs available at the same place to supply the cum and making the scheduling arrangements. That's a helluva lot of dicks to locate to suck in just one day, much less doing it for two weeks. If I drained a guy in the morning would he have made enough fresh cum for it to be worth it for me to suck the same man off again in the evening --- and could I get it out of him within five minutes? Would they be cum-donating volunteers or would they be paid for their services? Would I need to be blindfolded or man a glory hole? Would some men only participate if it was anonymous --- especially straight men? Would we have to advertise to get men on board? There're so many factors to consider --- it would entail a great deal of work. It might be easier to head for a big university in a large city and hit up the fraternities. Would it be better for giving all that head to head for a city known for having a large and active gay male population, like San Francisco? It wouldn't be easy to make it happen, but I love the idea. I'm certainly game and up for giving it a try if the details and logistics can ever be worked out --- all for the ultimate glory of science, of course. After all, someone has to do it, I guess, and I'm willing to buckle down and make the sacrifice. Usually my training sessions in your special basement room start in the late afternoon or after dinner, so I'm a little surprised at your announcement coming at this time of the day. But on the other hand, when it comes to your methods, "expect the unexpected" would be an appropriate motto to keep in mind. "Put your sneakers on," you tell me, "and nothing else." The regular state of affairs in your presence, of course, is for me to lack any article of clothing whatsoever that could possibly conceal any part of my body. But I do routinely wear a leather collar around my neck, and leather straps are almost always found tightly secured around both my wrists and each ankle. Each strap and the collar has a strong piece of round metal firmly attached to it --- with a double-looped S-clasp it's convenient to hook that circle of metal in a limb strap to a chain, and similarly quite easy to hook a leash to the collar. Overall this system takes you a lot less time to restrain me in any configuration you might wish than using ropes would. At the moment you're fully clothed, which also isn't normal when we're having a session --- another clue that this isn't going to be ordinary. "Put your hands out in front of you," is the next order, given once my feet are no longer bare. And with a clasp you secure my hands together at the wrist straps. "We're going on a trip in the car," you say as you hook the leash to my collar. "And you won't need any clothes where we're going." You lead me through a door into the garage and have me get into the back seat of your four-wheel drive SUV. Then you place a blindfold over my eyes and tell me to lie down on the floor so strangers in other vehicles won't notice me. The garage door opens, you back out, shut the door with the remote, and we're off. I'm very nervous --- once again, I'm getting a bad feeling about all this. I lose track of time, but it seems like there's less and less outside world traffic noise as we keep traveling. Maybe after an hour I notice a change in the feel of things. There haven't been any other vehicles near us for quite a while, and now we leave regular pavement and then seem to be driving on gravel --- it definitely slows us down. After what seems like quite a bit of that things shift again --- the gravel's gone and we're on a dirt road. It's very bumpy and progress is slow. Finally we're there, wherever it is. Perhaps and hour and a half or maybe even two hours have passed since we left the house. Obviously we're somewhere remote and isolated ("off the beaten path"). That means there'll be no danger of anyone hearing me scream and you won't have to gag me. --- unless you yourself become fed up and disgusted with the excessive noise. My ability to endure the severe pain I suffer at your hands in stoic silence the way a man should is extremely limited, rather sad, and in reality almost non-existent, or at least very minimal and short-lived. I always start off with a resolute plan of taking whatever you dish out like a man, but I can never seem to hold out for very long before I lose it and my resolve is gone. You open the back of the SUV and take out what I later learn is a medium-sized wagon loaded with the various items you need. You secure my leash to the back of the wagon that you're pulling and we set off along a path. I'm still blindfolded, but the terrain is basically flat, if a bit rocky, and it isn't too hard to follow sightless without stumbling. It's sunny and warm out --- a nice day. After about ten minutes of walking we've apparently finally reached the place you want to be, and at last the blindfold comes off. The full sun is rough on my eyes for a few minutes, but finally I can focus and take a good look around. We're in the middle of nowhere, in an open field, mostly dirt. There are a few large oak trees around, but not many. It seems quite normal that you have on sunglasses, but I am surprised to see that you have a rake, of all things, in one hand. But by now I know better than to ask why. Soon enough I'll find out what it's there for, and it's a no-brainer to realize that in some manner it's going to help me be uncomfortable. "A good friend of mine owns this land," you tell me. "It's private property --- and he's happy to let me use it. When he can, he tries to be present to watch the fun, but he couldn't make it today --- too bad." In the distance, not too far away --- maybe several hundred yards --- I can see what's either a small lake or perhaps a large pond. "Damn," you say unexpectedly. "I should have waited and had you suck me off for your lunch dessert when we got here. I don't get enough outdoor blow jobs. Yeah, you could do it again now, but I haven't had enough time to make a fresh load of cum, and without that it wouldn't be as rewarding for either of us. Oh well. Remind me next time, though, to hold off on your liquid protein snack `till we're here. And rest assured, there will be a next time." I don't say back what I immediately think --- that I can't remind you if you don't tell me in advance what we're going to be doing, and that never seems to happen. If I said anything about that now you'd figure I was being a smartass and kick me in the balls for it --- some things I have indeed learned the hard way by now --- so I keep my mouth shut. Of course, maybe when we start to repeat pain experiences you'll tell me a day ahead of time so I can brood and agonize about it mentally --- fret and stew over it and get myself all worked up --- for an entire day and night before it happens. Knowing you, you're bound to do something a little different when a pain training session is repeated to take it to a new level and make it even worse than it was the first time. Since the second and even subsequent times beyond that I won't be a total novice to experiencing whatever it is, you'll expect me to handle it at a more severe and intense level. "Come this way," you tell me, heading in the opposite direction of the water, still pulling the wagon with one hand while the other carries the rake. "I want to show you something truly unique and special --- something you don't see ev'ry day." You soon stop and let me get a good look at what's before us. I'm shocked and stunned by what I see, and massive waves of fear and immense panic quickly overtake me. On the ground directly in front of us in the sun is a very large ant colony with countless numbers of small red ants actively scrambling around. And four large, heavy-looking stakes with short chains attached to their ends have been driven into the ground at the periphery of the nest. The location and distance apart of the stakes clearly indicate they've been optimally placed for a man to lie between them --- with his body trunk in the exact center of the ant nest --- with his limbs maximally spread and of course secured to the stakes. I instinctively shudder at the very thought of that happening to anyone. "Pretty impressive, huh?" you casually chatter away, in just the right tone to inspire terror and unease. "These are actually imported red fire ants. They're often mistaken for another savage species, the dangerous Southern fire ant --- but these are even more aggressive and fierce. When they're threatened, attacked, or angry they're positively ferocious." You set the rake down and retrieve a glass jar from the wagon, stopping to quickly scoop several ants into it. "Let's take a close up look," you say as you bring the bottle to my face. They do indeed look impressively threatening, wicked, and menacing. "As ants go these are medium-sized ones. Not the little teeny ones, and not as big as some others. I've done a lot of research on the topic, and there are damned few other kinds of ants to be found anywhere as nasty, sinister, and downright unpleasant as these little buggers can be. Watch this." From an already opened pack of hot dogs (or franks, or wieners, or frankfurters, or whatever you want to call them) you drop a piece of a raw one into the jar. The five or six ants imprisoned there are instantly on top of it, and I can see them immediately and repeatedly biting into the meat. My heart sinks with dread as I realize I'm going to be the next meal for thousands of these ants. And once again I marvel at your ability to continually find something new to do to me that produces even more pain than whatever happened the previous time, when I clearly believed nothing could be worse than what I was experiencing then. You're always proving me wrong about that. I ought to have learned by now --- no matter how bad I think it is, it can and will be even worse the next time. "Let's do a little experiment," you say, tossing the ant-covered hot dog bit out of the jar. From the wagon you get out and set a small, still mostly folded tarp on the ground and then place on top of it a plastic squeeze container of honey and tubes of both Bengay and IcyHot. "Ever use either one of these?" you say, referring to the tubes, without waiting for an answer. "They're supposed to be for sore, aching, strained muscles --- you rub the stuff on your skin over where it hurts and it penetrates deep to make you feel better. I'm not sure how effective they really are used that way --- but if you rub it on without sore muscles often it burns and stings." As you speak you're at work coating an entire hot dog with honey, one with Bengay, and one with IcyHot. You also get one out and leave it as is. "Which one do you think the ants'll like best?" You pause. I'm still speechless. "I asked you a question --- answer!" you bark at me. "Uh --- the honey, I guess" I dully mumble back. And with long-handled tongs you carefully place each hot dog with its meat down on the ground in the center of the ant colony, muttering "we'll see soon enough" as you do it. "If I had the time to pursue it, I think it'd be fun to come up with my own home recipe for something that would attract the ants in droves and drive them to relentlessly go after what they see as a threat even better than anything store bought." Instantly the ants are massively attacking the foreign invaders. And in only a moment it's apparent more are drawn to the honey-covered hot dog than the plain one, but the two with the Bengay and IcyHot are totally obliterated with hordes of angry ants going after them with impressive determination. You keep speaking --- in my mind I've come to think of these vocal diatribes as "scare talks" --- generating psychological terror. They're highly effective, particularly with the different tones of voice and inflections you use --- you're quite good at this. I try to give myself counteracting, encouraging pep talks in my mind at such times, but I'm unable to tune out and avoid hearing what you're saying. "You know, when a bee stings you it's a one time deal. A bee can only zap you one time and then it dies. But these nasty little monsters --- why, they just keep biting you and biting you and biting you --- again and again --- nonstop. People call them fire ants `cause it burns so badly when one of them gets a taste of you --- a lot of people get blisters from it as well. Just think of the damage and agony hundreds or even thousands at work at once can do." You pause to let that sink in before continuing. "In many native American tribes --- both in North and South America --- as part of the rite of passage from boyhood to becoming a warrior, a young adult male would lie down on top of an ant pit and remain there for several hours, enduring the pain of the ritual ordeal as a solemn test of manhood and bravery. And he'd do it without making a sound, without needing to be tied down, and without moving. Those men had greater mental powers than we do now --- they probably went into some sort of self-induced trance that helped them get through it." You take a breath before going on. "Sometimes, of course, they'd tie an unfortunate captured enemy warrior or white settler over a bunch of ants and leave him there for hours and hours as a form of torture --- sometimes coating his entire body with honey. Most Indians could take the pain with some degree of bravery, but a white man would be screaming his head off --- the same way I'm sure you will soon as well. And sometimes an unfortunate victim would remain under attack by the ants however long it took for him to die. Just how horrible that might really be --- and how long it might take for death --- would depend on the kind of ants involved. But with enough time even milder ones can collectively kill a man who can't get away. Of course you won't be in contact with these ants that long --- it'll just seem like it. These are badass ants --- very bad." You get the tongs out and retrieve the hot dogs and fling them away. "Looks like you were wrong --- they like the muscle medicine more than the honey. I don't know why. I can't see much difference, though, between the Bengay and IcyHot in how they're drawn to the stuff. So I guess we'll use IcyHot on you today and try Bengay the next time we do this. Remember that in case I forget later," you instruct me. Your next move surprises me. You get out a hard cover book and a die. "I'm gonna roll this die now," you say, "to see how many successive fifteen-minute periods you'll be spending with your numerous newfound friends." You toss it on the surface of the book --- the result: a four. "Not bad," you continue, " one full hour for you and the mean little critters to get to intimately know one another --- and you will." Then you stop to rummage around a bit in the wagon and produce several more tubes of IcyHot. "Step over here and take off your shoes," you command, so I do after you free my hands. Then you proceed to liberally coat certain parts of my body with a thick layer of the cream substance. My cock and balls are totally covered, and you make sure to get it into my crack as well. You work your way upward and hit my navel, pecs, nips, and arm pits. Just as you said, it basically stings and isn't very pleasant. Finally you produce a set of tight-fitting goggles, the kind a swimmer or a skier would wear. "This'll keep `em out of your eyes," you tell me as they go on. "Anywhere else is fair game for the nasty little buggers." I'm standing terrified and feeling more upset, ill at ease, and uncomfortable now than I think I've been with anything else you've done to me so far --- this seems so incredibly diabolical and evil. You grab the rake and look directly at me. "Watch this," you tell me as you roughly scrape it over the dirt on top of the ant colony. "This gets them super angry --- really mad --- sets `em on the warpath." Indeed, hordes of ants race up from below in attack mode to defend their home ground. "OK --- you know where your place is now," you calmly tell me. "Let's get started. Lie down on top of the ants and spread your arms and legs close to the stakes." I'm absolutely helpless --- numb, panic-stricken, and paralyzed by my intense fear. I stare almost in disbelief, and then start slowly shaking my head from side to side --- you must be out of your mind to think I'm going to go along what you just told me to do. "No," I finally quietly say. "I can't do this. No way. This is too much --- it's suicidal. Let me go," are the words that come out of my mouth. And then I take some steps backwards away from the ant nest. You explode in a fury of rage. I've never seen you so angry. "Who the hell are you to say no? I gave you an order! You goddamn miserable son of a bitch --- you dare to think you can defy me! I am in control here. You have no choice in this matter. You can and will do this. Your behavior is outrageous and intolerable. You'll be punished for this – severely." In a powerful whirlwind of motion, you roughly grab my collar --- yanking hard on it, you start dragging me toward the ants. "I was in a good mood and thinking of taking fifteen minutes off your time with the ants if you were enough of a man to accept your fate with some dignity and not beg for it not to happen. Now you're gonna be privileged to spend an additional half hour with these fierce fire ants --- as much as you may think it will, it won't kill you, but you'll be damned miserable, that's for sure. Well, that's just the start --- there'll be more extremely harsh punishment of another kind to commence as soon as you finish with the ants! You've foolishly made a huge mistake and you're gonna regret it dearly. When I start in on you after the ants you'll soon be begging for death rather than have it continue --- and, of course, it will continue, without letup until completion. And remember, if --- or when, that is --- you pass out, the punishment starts up from where it left off when I've revived you. There's no escape." In very little time you have me where you want me --- I'm still dazed and in shock as you throw me down on the ant-infested ground with impressive strength and start securing my limbs to the stakes. Much as I wish I could and want to, I have no ability to stop you. "It'll be interesting to see how long you scream before you can't do it any more. Either you'll realize it's a complete waste of your energy and the exact opposite of being a real man about this, or your vocal cords'll give out and you'll reach a point where you simply can't scream any longer --- you'll try to and go through the motions but no sound will emerge." As you work you continue speaking in a tone still filled with immense anger. "God I wish there was some way to make your dick get hard and keep it that way --- then there'd be a larger surface area for the ants to be biting." Well satisfied with the result, you step back, your task complete --- I'm chained to the stakes and the ants are streaming all over me, biting me everywhere nonstop and repeatedly, really going to town, seemingly everywhere all at once. They're especially concentrating in huge numbers on the parts of me covered with the IcyHot. "I'll make you a deal," you say laughingly. "If you can will yourself to get a full boner and keep it up for five minutes I'll set you free." We both know that's utterly impossible. Immediately after your last word the first one of my countless and seemingly endless piercing, long-lasting, shrill screams fills the air. I surprise even myself, not knowing I had it in me to make such a dramatic sound of despair and agony. I can hardly believe the casual stance you take now as you set up a beach umbrella and unfold a lawn chair beneath it. You open a cooler and take the cap off a beer bottle and settle down with the book you brought. You also get out a timer and set it, telling me "your hour and a half starts now --- enjoy." That wagon clearly carries a lot of items. In no time I'm writhing in immense pain. I'm desperate, delirious, shouting between constant bone-chilling, blood-curdling, wake-the-dead screams, trying to move my body enough to throw the ants off (which really can't be done), sobbing, heaving, gasping, crying (so much that the eye goggles are soon flooded with copious tears), shaking, trembling, begging, pleading, blubbering. I blurt out things like: "no more" --- "please, please! let me go" --- "make them stop!" --- "oh god it hurts so much!" --- "stop this!" --- "they're killing me" --- and on and on I go with these pathetic verbal outbursts. And all my screaming and words are totally ineffective, of course, in terms of changing or ending what's happening to me. You calmly sit there, highly enjoying yourself as I suffer. You do stop now and then to take pictures with a camera and film some of the torture with a camcorder. At one point you sarcastically compliment me on the duration and intensity of my screams, saying you wish you'd brought a battery-powered decibel-meter to analyze them. And as always, you're proven correct again. Eventually my screams do end, as if there's a finite limit and I've used them all up. I have no idea how long it's taken for it to happen. You tell me later it was about half way through. But even if I finally can no longer scream, I never stop straining and twisting and pulling against the restraints holding me down. Finally after an eternity and thousands of burning, stinging bites the timer goes off and you step over to set me loose. When my last limb is free I'm up in a frenzy of movement and frantic activity, trying to fling aside and brush off the ants that are all over me. "Use your brain," you tell me. "The quickest way to get all those ants off is to jump in the pond --- it's six feet deep in the middle." That's all it takes ---I yank off the goggles and I'm off in a flash for the water. When I emerge and eventually make my way back to where you are, I'm moving very slowly in a lot of pain. Large areas of my body are looking bright red and starting to swell. And then a major defining moment in our relationship occurs. You look me in the eyes and calmly speak directly to me. "Listen carefully. I'm only saying this one time. I'm going to give you an order. You made a serious error in judgment earlier for which you're going to suffer severely, and I'm hoping you're smart enough not to compound it and make things worse now. I expect you to do exactly as told and will accept nothing less. Put these back on," you say as you hand the eye protection goggles back to me. As I'm doing that you continue. "I'm not going to restrain you with any chains this time. I want you to go over and lay down on the ant nest again, spreading your arms and legs out where they were before. You will remain still and stay there until I tell you to get up. That's all. Now move." I'm obviously being tested. Am I going to defiantly challenge your authority again? Will I have the audacity --- the nerve --- enough guts --- the balls --- to ignore a command from you a second time, triggering your wrath and rage and setting myself up for additional punishment? Absolutely not--- no way --- I'm not that idiotic or suicidal. I simply can't fuck up this time. Earlier I failed in my basic duty and obligation as a slave to deliver unconditional and complete obedience to my master. That there should be a heavy, harsh, and severe penalty to be paid as a result should not be a surprise. Admittedly the first time I screwed up I was in a daze and not thinking. But I can't plead that as an excuse and ask for leniency and beg for mercy --- it would only be pathetic, feeble, and lame. Yes, it was incredibly stupid of me before to not obey --- it didn't prevent my body being made available for the ants to assault and only made it worse, increasing the amount of time I had to endure it. And of course, now I'm going to have to somehow survive the extra punishment ordeal you're planning as a consequence. I'm pretty sure though, that whatever that will be, it isn't this laying down with the ants again, and that you aren't going to keep me there too long. You're going too easy on me --- no IcyHot, you didn't rake the ground over their colony, and you're not securing me to the stakes this time. One thing I can count on is that when the punishment for my foolish lapse begins, whatever it may be, it'll definitely be brutal, agonizing, maximally painful --- and, as you earlier described these ants, very bad. So although I'm still clearly petrified of the ants, my fear of you now is even greater. I submit and capitulate to your desires and somehow motion in my body starts --- loathe as I am to do it, I silently walk to the dreaded site and lie down and move my limbs apart. It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to make myself do in my life. Immediately an impressive, uncountable number of angry, aggressive, vicious ants are crawling on my body in attack mode. After all the bites I just experienced in ninety minutes, what are a few more? --- one could ask, I suppose. I grimace and quiver, quake and tremble, shake and moan and clench my teeth, struggling mightily to control my body and maintain composure and decorum as much as possible beyond that. After ten minutes you speak. "That's much better. The first time right from the start you were all worked up mentally and nearly hysterical. And I have to say, at times I've been disappointed and dismayed, starting to have doubts about your ability to learn to take pain like a real man. Your progress has been frustratingly slow --- no leaps and bounds, that's for sure. I've wondered if perhaps I made a mistake and mis-evaluated matters in taking you on --- I may have let the fact that you sucked my dick so well the first time we met overly influence my judgment --- maybe you don't have what it takes in you for accepting, handling, and tolerating pain. But this is a big improvement over round one. You may get up now and jump in the lake again." One again my desperate need to get all the ants who've been torturing me off of my body compels me to find the necessary energy, in spite of all I've been through so far, to dash for the water with surprising speed and agility. In a few minutes I return and remove the eye goggles. "Follow me," you instruct, and you lead me to the nearest large tree, an oak. "Embrace the tree --- get you body right up next to it, tight and close --- hug the bark and wrap your arms around the tree." As I do so, with a small length of chain you hook my two wrists together. I'm in perfect position for the entire back side of my body to be flogged, and now I know what's coming. "I left something I need now in the car," you tell me, "so I'll have to go back and get it. Obviously I didn't anticipate needing it --- I guess I should have put it in the wagon just in case. Next time I certainly will. And now, during my absence, let me leave you with this happy thought to ponder. The words `bullwhip' and `blood' both have the letters `b' and `l' in them. Bullwhips and blood --- they certainly go together. Certainly not all blood comes from the use of a bullwhip, but on the other hand a bullwhip is never used on a man without blood resulting. I'm going now to retrieve the heavy duty bullwhip I always keep in the car." As you leave, just as you knew I'd be, I'm inwardly drowning in immense fear and terror at what you've said. I'm gonna be flogged with the kind of whip that leaves behind dramatic red stripes of dripping blood. All I can think of is how stupid I was earlier, wondering how many lashes you'll give me, how much it'll hurt, and how long it'll take me to recover afterwards. In perhaps a half hour --- all too soon, since naturally I'm wishing you'll never find your way back --- I hear your approaching footsteps. Then you're right behind me. "In the normal scope and sequence of my slave training pain tolerance curriculum, it'd still be quite some time before you'd be introduced to the experience of a messy, bloody, agonizing flogging with a bullwhip. But of course, your foolish inaction earlier has made this necessary now. Just like losing your virginity, you never forget your first time. Of course, after you first learn how a bullwhip can tear open your hide, you'll passionately hope it never happens again as long as you live. But remember, as I've told you more than once, everything we do --- including this --- will be repeated at least several times. And you'll experience some unpleasant things numerous times." With your left hand you forcefully grab my head by the hair and yank it back, and then your right hand roughly rubs the cold surface of the coiled whip against my cheek. "This is going to introduce you to more severe pain than you've ever experienced before in your life --- more sheer agony than you could believe possible. The lashes you've received in my basement from various whips and cats so far have been merely innocent and mild child's play compared to what this will do. And if you think the ants were bad, just wait `till your feel this." You pause to let that sink it and then continue. "We're not at my normal location for bullwhip torture. But I do always try to be outdoors for it since it's such a bitch to clean up all the blood that flies and splatters from where it lands and dries when you're inside. I'd prefer for you to be hanging suspended above ground, but this tree doesn't have a major branch that's right for it --- lucky for you, I suppose." You let go of my head as you go on. "A proper lash with a bullwhip rips open the skin, tears into the muscle layer beneath it, and produces plenty of blood --- that's all there is to it. If the same area is lashed repeatedly, the tissue in that spot turns into messy, raw, pulverized, bleeding, red pulp. Healing can be slow and usually leaves a scar." After another brief pause you continue. "You know, brutally beating men with whips is nothing new --- I'm sure it's been done for thousands and thousands of years. The ancient Romans are famous --- now and back then as well --- for their advanced skills and mastery in the use of flogging as a method of torture, punishment, interrogation, and execution. They would often embed sharp bits of metal and pieces of broken glass into the ends of the strands of their cats and in their whips. Besides flogging it was sometimes called scourging. Some victims were flogged without letup or mercy until they expired --- the number of lashes required for death would naturally depend on their intensity and the strength of the doomed man. Often a man sentenced to decapitation would be flogged close to the point of his life ending before his head was cut off --- they felt that simple head removal was too easy and wanted the victim to suffer more first before the final end. And a man condemned to die by crucifixion --- besides having to carry the heavy wooden beamed cross he'd be nailed onto to the site it'd be erected on --- was also brutally scourged first." A wealth of information, you continue. "Many Oriental peoples in the Far East have developed distinctive and creative methods of torture --- some of them quite extreme --- that have been cultivated and refined over centuries. Many have fascinating names, like `The Death of A Thousand Cuts'. Orientals also seem to have a keen interest in water torture. Compared to Westerners, they tend to be much more patient and are willing to continue and repeat something small that may not seem so bad when it commences for countless hours, over the course of which it becomes anything but small." After a brief pause your narrative goes on. "One unusual and I imagine highly effective pain production technique --- perfected in the Philippines, I believe --- isn't quite flogging, but it's still something quite interesting and worthy of consideration. The victim is tied down shirtless onto a table or the ground, laying face down on his front side, exposing his bare back. Instead of the use of a whip or cat of some kind, a thin, flat, flexible but strong piece of metal that's been heated until it's red hot is removed from the heat source and immediately laid down across the man's back and left there for a few minutes. It instantly melts the now sizzling outer flesh and sinks down into the muscle tissue layer, and then as it cools a bit the burning, melting skin --- think how it must smell --- seems to coalesce and slightly solidify and reform over the metal so that it ends up actually somewhat embedded into the man's back. Only then is the metal strip forcefully removed, ripping open the fresh flesh layer that had just formed over it. And of course this is then patiently repeated numerous times. I've never seen it in person, but I'd sure like to --- if I could stand the stench of the burning skin and muscle. Just imagine the pain and the screams --- they both must be incredible." Hearing this, I briefly think to myself that things could be worse than what's momentarily in store for me. "But I digress for far too long," you say. "We should get back to what's about to happen here and now --- your first bullwhipping." Then you're stepping away --- obviously to get to the proper distance from my body for using the bullwhip on it. "I'm not about to do this at a half-assed level. When I use a full-sized bullwhip to decorate a man with red stripes, he damned well knows he's been whipped. I put all my strength and full energy into each and ev'ry lash --- that's one of the reasons there's so much blood when I do it compared to some others. When we're done I'll be drenched in sweat from the effort I've expended. I've settled on giving you thirty lashes. It was going to be fifty, but because you performed so well the second time you laid down on top of the ants I'm mercifully reducing it. I've decided on an interval of fifteen seconds between each lash, and there're two buckets of water from the pond sitting here on the ground to use if needed to revive you should the searing intensity of the immense pain at any point render you unconscious. To be honest, I'm fully expecting that to happen. The water isn't as cold as I'd like, but that can't be helped. So you'll at least be able to sit down as you heal, I've decided to only flog your back --- not your ass." And for once there's no pause for me to consider what you've just said. Only a few seconds after hearing the word "ass" a mighty crack explodes in the air as the brutal whip lands full force on my bare back for the first time and the blood instantly and copiously flows out of my savagely ripped open flesh. You were absolute right. I've never felt such pain and never would have believed anything could produce such agony in my body. It turns out I'm not totally screamed out after all, and an immense one spontaneously erupts from the depths of my mouth. In only a few moments I'll be far too overwhelmed to be able to pointlessly beg for you to stop, but at the beginning I at least manage to refrain from doing that. As the lashes go on I'm not able to continue screaming as loudly, and about halfway through the screams end. But that doesn't mean the pain is any less --- if anything, it's even worse as lashes start to land on spots already bleeding from earlier ones. You count out the lashes as you deliver them, but soon I'm losing mental acuity, going beyond being able to notice, focus, understand or comprehend. The only thing I'm aware of is the unbelievable pain that completely dominates ev'ry fiber of my being --- the endless waves of it have become my entire world at the moment. After lash twenty-two I do indeed pass out. You stop and revive me after throwing both buckets of water on my face and holding an open container of concentrated ammonia near my nostrils --- you're better prepared than any Boy Scout could ever hope to be. And though it leaves me no longer unconscious and ready to suffer through the remaining lashes, I'm still not fully with it by any stretch of the imagination. After you've delivered the last lash --- as you said, not letting up whatsoever in intensity and force ---- you unhook my hands and I instantly collapse in a bleeding, limp, heap on the ground --- not quite unconscious, but not far from it, either. You have to take everything out of the wagon and toss me into it on the tarp to get me back to the car --- there's no way I'm going to make it on my own, and the wagon'll be easier than carrying me, even if it means another trip back to retrieve the normal contents of the wagon to finally get them back to the car. Back at the car, you place the tarp on the back seat and toss me onto it, hoping to keep the bulk of my oozing blood off of the interior. It's mostly clotted by now and not so actively flowing. I'm lying on my side, and you strap me in with several seatbelts. And after you've got all your materials, supplies, and items back from the site of the ant nest, we're off for home. I remember nothing of the trip back. I finally wake up the next day, in bed on my front side, sore and miserable and groggy from the sedative and pain medicine you've given me (you've also given me antihistamine medication along with an antibiotic). You come in and begin gently attending to my wounds, and I'm once again struck at the immense contrast between how ruthless you can be when giving the torture and how tender you can be in dealing with the aftermath.