Jerry had been waiting for this evening for awhile. Now, sitting there, he could feel the voltage pulsing around him. All ready to be harnessed through his program. I could see that now.
Jerry started to glow with strength now. He pushed the lever on his chair’s armrest and wheeled his chair towards the suspended figure. He signaled to two of the Hispanic guys to open the envelopes they had been given at the beginning of the evening. He punched up his “special” program on the computer.
Manuel and Juan taped electrodes to the sides of Martin’s belly and to each nipple. The other ends where joined to a port opening in Jerry’s computer and to a power cord.
“Now don’t overdo it, Jerry,” Martin admonished, grinning his Santa Claus grin.
Jerry pressed a key that belted out a speech response (that Martin had programmed himself), to be accessed with one of the function keys:
“Fuck you! Fatboy!”
“Ah, now that’s mah boy!” Martin beamed proudly—just before Jerry sent the first charge of voltage through the wire.
It was a stiff jolt to Martin, but it only made him wince. Jerry’s program ran a series of shocks of random strengths and duration, and to alternate areas of Martin’s body. The shocks were unpredictable, with some of them mild shocks and some of them intense ones. Jerry had written the program himself and had wanted the randomness so he could be surprised and pleased by an unexpected strong jolt or one of long duration.
Martin struggled and gasped, occasionally screaming, but he didn’t plead for an end. Jerry smiled maliciously as the program’s variations narrowed to the more intense voltage ranges with only the durations still running from short to long.
I thought Martin’s massive body jerking about as much as it did would loosen the ceiling beam! Finally, the program ended—right after a loud and prolonged scream. We all grinned and applauded.
The electrodes were removed and Jerry guided his chair backwards from the heavily breathing form. Two other guys, myself and Todd, opened our envelopes.
We removed our wide leather belts and whipped the heaving belly until it was quite covered with red welts. Martin’s belly and ass got the most attention and the massive form twisted in his restraints after each slap of leather. Sweat dripped off his body and his hair was matted with it. Yet he gritted his teeth instead of begging us to stop.
“Am I done, yet?” Martin was exhausted and, had it been just us guys and him, I am sure he would have demanded to be released. He had some rather stringent guidelines as to how much punishment he would willingly take—even though we all knew he enjoyed the punishments and could take quite a lot of punishment. Yet he hesitated to use the safety word that was our cue to stop.
Dwayne attached a pool stick and a small motor to the side of Jerry’s wheelchair. The tip of the stick had a cap with a finishing nail protruding from it. Jerry backed up his chair and rammed the stick into the waiting abdomen, using the joystick box to alter the angle of the stick so that it would penetrate different areas.
He stabbed his lance straight on, from the sides, even to the underside of his target. Each hit was registered by Martin’s grimaces or by the volume of his “ow!” and “ouches.”
A cap with a longer nail was substituted and screwed onto the cue stick and the process was repeated. This, of course, elicited stronger and louder exclamations of pain, but Martin didn’t waver. Instead he kept his abdomen focused forward, never flinching from the impending onslaughts of piercings—only flinching from their impact. I was sure that the rest of us would have attempted to dodge the lance as best as possible within such constraints, but not Martin. Martin actually was enjoying this and seemed to have regained some of his vitality.
When Jerry stopped, we gave Martin a beer and fucked him while Jerry’s chair was readied for the next punishment. Some of us, myself included, grabbed onto the support beam and wrapped our legs around Martin’s shoulders so we could face-fuck him as he remained suspended in his bonds.
Several of the guys opened their envelopes and positioned a compressed air tank onto Jerry’s wheelchair. An air rifle was attached where the pool cue had been and a small balloon filled with red liquid was shoved into Martin’s navel. We each picked up a board and waited.
Jerry took aim at Martin’s belly, his good finger slowly squeezed the trigger, prolonging everyone’s expectations, but he deliberately missed the balloon, sending a sharp pain to the lower part of Martin’s abdomen instead.
“One!” Jack shouted and slapped his board across Martin’s ass.
Jerry continued shooting compressed air at the fleshy beach ball, first under the belly, then to the sides, now directly against the skin, now an inch or two away. And each Jerrye, one of us would shout the next number and slap a board across the round ass, or, if our instructions had directed, across the gut. Martin screamed his pain, but never implored us to stop. He was gasping pretty heavily after the first round, and although our script called for more, Jerry’s computer was clear.
Despite our own lascivious urgings, we knew to stop. If we violated Jerry’s instructions, Martin would have us up there on a day when Jerry wasn’t present and he would repeat “the little exercise with your asses—and we start it all over from the beginning.” This was in part because he would have wanted to repay us in kind, but more because we hadn’t respected Jerry’s wishes. He was submitting to our punishments tonight more for Jerry’s enjoyment than for our pleasures—which he viewed as just an added advantage.
We let Martin hang there for a while and had a few more beers. The evening was slowing down some, until Harry made his decision. Jack and Harry had become a hot item lately, even though Harry still helped me out with Jerry and shouldn’t have been nervous with him.
Harry and Jack came up to Jerry, and Harry looked a little bit antsy.
“Um. Jerry? Harry wants to ask you for something.”
This was followed by Harry slapping Jack’s arm and saying, “No, you ask.” Followed by Jack’s, “No, you ask. You want him to do it, I’m just here to ASSist.” He grinned and grabbed Harry’s buttocks.
Harry heaved a sigh and nervously asked, “Jerry? … Do you think, I mean … I would like for you to try out those electrode thingies, I mean … if Jack ties me up like Martin there could you run the program to shock my prick and, of yeah,” he looked at Jack and smiled, gaining some courage from the exchanged glances, “and especially my balls? Like, I don’t mean as severe as Martin’s gut got, though. Can you reduce the voltage some?”
Jerry grinned and nodded. “I brought along – some extra – toys – that should do the job profession — ally.”
“All right!” both men shouted and gave each other the high five slap. Harry lost his trepidation and immediately removed his clothes. He quietly but determinedly stood spread-legged as Jack bound his glistening black arms to another ceiling beam and then abruptly spread his friend’s legs painfully wider to accommodate the metal rings in the floor.
From a small box under Jerry’s chair, Jack found two circular metal clamps which he attached to Harry’s very rigid ebony staff—one to its base and one just behind the head. Another ring with two electrodes was cinched around the heavy black sack. Once again the electrodes were attached to Jerry’s computer.
I saw Jerry write a program line number and change the numerical value for some of the variables to a lower value. He knew the program so well that he could type in one thing to make any change he wanted. This was one of the simpler changes, but he knew exactly where to go.
Harry was steady, his legs firm, his eyes forward as if he had detached his consciousness from what was about to happen to his body. Jolts to his prick throbbed it up and his neck shot his head back. Another to his balls made his knees buckle and he gasped as his bound arms held him up. He regained his footing and stood firmly once more, flexing his muscular arms so that the vein along each forearm stood out. A few more Jerry’s and Harry’s shrieks were painful to hear — yet he always stopped and regained his composure and softly said, “Again,” his eyes straight forward—and glazed with pleasure.
Jerry was nobody’s fool and he wasn’t about to overdo a punishment with a “newbie”. He quietly typed away. I took a quick look at his screen. There were two thin boxes with calibrations and, as Jerry pressed one key or another, a highlight went across one or the other box. The “voltage” box slowly went up but didn’t go beyond a rather low voltage. Instead, it alternated cyclically between low and medium range voltages. The current was stroking the stiff cock—an electric masturbation. The “duration” box slowly climbed.
Harry’s muscles were all tensed and his prick was raised as high as it could possibly go. We could see the prick throb to the electrical pulses. Jerry watched as Harry alternately arched, stiffened, and became taut and then less strained. Finally, Jerry pressed down a key that shot the voltage meter box up.
Harry’s eyes bugged in surprise as he shrieked in agonizing pain and he shot one of the biggest streams of jism further than I imagined was possible. The voltage highlight cascaded down in successive increments as Harry jerked each orgasmic spasm until, finally, a panting Harry hung as limp as his restraints would allow. His face glowed with sweat, but another, inner glow, exuded from him as he cast grateful glances at Jerry.
My admiration for Jerry grew a thousand fold that day, not only for his technical skill and wizardry (much of which he learned from Martin—who supplied him with all types of gadgets) but mostly for his ability to judge his limits and readiness. Even though Harry and I had been Jerry’s caretakers and now even lived with him, we had never really gotten on the receiving side of his more “involved” punishments until now.
I almost asked for a turn, but thought better of it. I wanted a bit more control than I would get in a group setting like this. Jerry and I (and Harry) had engaged in some dominance activities at home, but not to this extent.
Jack undid Harry’s bonds and the huge black brother (my former roommate at the place where we worked and a lover of mine who got me involved with Jerry, Martin, and the gang) collapsed into caressing, soothing arms.
“Can I get down now?”
It was Martin. He was rather bored just being suspended and the pout on the face of this huge man (who had cultivated the image of some scowling scoundrel to the rest of the world) seemed a little incongruous and slightly silly. It was obvious that he was more than a little disappointed that he wasn’t still being tormented.
“Don’t worry — I still – have plans for — you!” The halting voice of the computer’s speech synthesizer hissed. “I’m a gambler. What do I get to do to you if I break that — balloon in three shots — from two feet away?”
“I know you have some devious, derate plan up your sleeve,” Martin sneered. “Okay. I’m game. Any—fucking—thing—you—want.” He bit off each of the words slowly. Then he narrowed his eyes into slits, but I could still see the shiny cores lovingly burrowing their gaze into Jerry’s pale face so he could get the meaning. “And … I … mean … anything!” he hissed sternly.
Jerry just smirked and his computer bellowed, “Plan 17.”
“Oh, that’s me!” one of the guys said as he eagerly tore open his envelope.
The first shot was from two feet away, and the balloon’s surface rippled. The guy with the envelope, Todd (a somewhat slim white guy, who had the kind of nondescript body type that many southern crackers have—coarse, rugged, but sexy only because he’s a renegade), adjusted a knob on the compressed air tank.
“That’s one!” Martin taunted.
Jerry moved his chair erratically back and forth and finally aimed his nozzle just a foot away from the balloon.
“You said two feet!” Martin sneered amiably.
“Shut the fuck up, fat boy!”
Martin chuckled. “A variation of my own program, and with my own synthesized voice. I’m impress— OW!”
The second shot made large ripples in the balloon and we all cast our spells on it mentally forcing it to break, but it didn’t. We were beginning to worry. Martin never let anyone go beyond the agreed upon number of blows, slaps, kicks, etc. If Jerry didn’t break the balloon on the third try, he would have to stop.
Once again the motor whirred and the chair made several arcs before returning, this Jerrye placing the nozzle only an eighth of an inch away from the balloon.
“Hold on, now, Jerry. That wasn’t the distance agreed upon now, was it?” Martin chuckled.
We knew Jerry would get his way, but we waited for the strategy. And strategy he had. He pressed one key. The computer voice was smooth and uninterrupted since the speech apparently had been prepared in advance of this likelihood.
“Did I say two feet? My, my. I really have a difficulty in judging. But then I am two feet away. My face and body are at least two feet away. Right, guys? … Tsk, tsk. If you thought I meant the nozzle of the RIFLE, that was your error. You inferred incorrectly. I knew what I meant. Now get ready my meaty slab of pork. This one’s gonna really hurt.”
We all grinned at the theatrical brilliance of this maneuver, and, sure enough, Martin grinned—just prior to his “OW-OW-OUCH! DAMMIT!” The balloon broke and the red liquid oozed out of his navel like blood.
Todd ran up to Martin and tugged at the velcro strips on the side of his shorts. This released the shorts and the thick pole popped up thrusting its bloated head towards Jerry’s forehead and the heavy sac of the extra large “eggs” (“juevos” Juan and Manuel always say, smacking their lips) bounced up and down until their swinging motion was countered by their enormous mass.
“Uh.” Martin was getting a bit nervous, but he stopped as Jerry shot him a stern look.
Whir. Whir, whir. The chair made a backwards arc and then a full circle until the chair stopped expertly—the nozzle of the rifle pressed firmly against the perfect target.
“Now wait a minute, Jerrymy, I don’t think I can —”
Too late. He had blundered. He had made a fatal flaw and there was no way to retract it. Although Martin, Harry and I could call him “Jerrymy” in private, Jerry did not like the diminutive name which he had been called all of his life because of how small he looked in his wheelchair. Although nearly twenty, his face—and indeed his size—made him too boyish looking, even in the biker gang get-up he wore tonight.
There was a tense silence that froze the air in the room. Apologizing would only worsen the situation. Martin’s face was stern, but a grim smile slowly widened.
“I insist, noble sir, that you settle for no less than three shots—from the front. At least one from the backside. And, …” he paused a moment and his eyes narrowed meaningfully, his voice turning almost cold as if he was detached from what he was about to say, “And if I am still conscious, well you know what to do, don’t you?”
Well, the first shot and the deep howl of excruciating pain startled all of us. The sac of flesh had jumped so quickly that we almost couldn’t see it. Martin clutched his fists in agony and struggled against the bonds, twisting spasmodically in the unyielding restraints. Most of us involuntarily pressed our thighs a little closer around our own precious packages. The look on Martin’s face was “What-the-fuck-did-I-let-myself-get-into?!” But he didn’t beg for an end to his punishment.
Whir, whir. The chair was behind Martin now and as the cold metal touched his scrotum he winced with apprehension, and there was fear on his face as he tried to move his hips forward and put some distance between his reddening jewels and the rifle. But the chair inched forward to match his movements and Martin’s face contorted in apprehension, nearly shouting out his safety word, which I saw him mouth as if in prayer. He controlled himself, though, before the next discharged jet of air tore into his tender satchel, setting fire to every nerve cell in the sack and contents. It was ironic that this same set of beautifully delicious orbs which, when fondled, could bring such feelings of arousal could also bring such excruciating misery.
Martin let out a sob and we could see some tears leak out of his clenched eyelids. He panted and heaved. He was about to speak when he saw Jerry’s chair arc around in front. It was one thing for us to witness his faltering spirits. But in front of Jerry, … He let out a sigh of resignation and bit his lip. Jerry waited, and moved the rifle’s nozzle two inches away from the reddened and rapidly swelling target.
Martin was huffing heavily, now, and his voice started out with a quiver, but strengthened as he spoke, “I’m still conscious, you know.” He winked and blew a kiss to his abuser.
The next shot made him lose his stalwart demeanor and his husky body crumpled as he whimpered quietly, “Stop.” There was a pause as he looked out towards Jerry. “Please stop.” It was almost a whisper, but we all heard it. But we didn’t hear the safety word, which he formed on his lips. It was never uttered.
Someone whispered, “Don’t stop, Jerry!” and a few more voices said in unison, “Don’t stop, Jerry.”
At first, Martin glared at the perpetrators, but after the chorus we could see a subtle change come over his face—or at least we conned ourselves that we did as we all took up the chant: “Don’t stop, Jerry! Don’t stop, Jerry.”
But Jerry evaluated his captive’s condition and had whirled his chair 180 degrees, starting to move away from the sweating mass of flesh, when Martin’s weak voice pleaded “Please, please! Please — don’t stop … JerryMY.”
Now we all picked up the chant and shouted our taunting encouragements, “Please, please, DON’T stop, JerryMY!”
The chair made the fastest turn around I had ever seen Jerry make. Jerry looked up questioningly.
“Go – ahead. – Make – my – day!” The staccato deep basso voice dared as the round, grizzly-bear head bent forward.
I couldn’t believe that Martin would still have the strength or willpower once the weapon was aimed so close to his balls again. But he straightened himself, stretching his sturdy legs apart and firmly holding them in place as he made the valiant remark, “I’m a fat pig with unnaturally gigantic hairy balls. I’ve lost a wrestling match and a wager in one night.” His sigh was almost sobbed out as he paused. “If I’m anything positive, it’s that I am a man of my word—I keep my promises, and I make the best damned target possible since you can’t possibly miss and I register the value of the punishment.”
He paused again and, firmly grasped the beam above him. “Please, don’t sop, JerryMY.” he muttered. We took up the chant.
Three successive blasts with only a few seconds pause between them sent Martin bellowing, gyrating and tearing in his bonds.
He finally passed out.
Jerry looked a little worried, but Martin was breathing and almost looked peaceful and contented. It took several of us to take him down, carry him to the rack, place several wet pads of cloth over his groin and tie him to the rack so he wouldn’t hurt himself moving around when he woke up.
I looked at all of the marks on the prone body and marveled not only at its durability but at the stamina, fortitude, and determination this man had. One handicapped lad had changed him from a misfit who got into barroom brawls and a growling threatening wild bear into this submissive and all-too-willing participant who glorified in his own agonizing torment.
Fat men hadn’t been “my type” before I met Jerry and Martin. Actually, Harry and Dwayne were, but I began to get involved in this bondage business myself because of Jerry, and although I didn’t go to extremes, I found it very exciting to give up control to Jerry (I never allowed anyone else to do it to me). I still didn’t get into it too much—I had definite restrictions on what I would allow. Now that I looked at Martin’s peaceful form, I actually became aroused by his shape—its roundness, its fleshiness, its durability with its vulnerability. I had discovered a new dimension to my passion.
Jack and Harry volunteered to watch and nurse Martin until he could get back to the city. I got Jerry back into the medivan. He was sweating and exhausted and I feared he would deteriorate from the exertions he had undertaken. I readied the cellular with its speed dial set to the hospital’s number, but I didn’t need it. Jerry had actually gained some strength tonight and slept peacefully. He was quite invigorated for several weeks.