| Subject: I Was Kidnapped & Tortured By A Sadistic Motorcycle Gang |
Author:
Stan
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Date Posted: 10:10:15 03/17/16 Thu
I had just exited a gay bar in the city where I lived. It was late at night, and I was walking back to my car which was parked a couple blocks away on a dimly-lit side street. Suddenly, I was attacked by a vicious motorcycle gang. They put handcuffs on me and pushed me into the back of a van. They took me to a room inside what appeared to be an abandoned building, which was probably their hangout.
They left me in one corner of the room while they all gathered in the opposite corner. They appeared to be arguing over what to do with me (or, more accurately, "to" me). Then, they approached me and ripped off all my clothes so that I was stark naked. They took off the handcuffs and tied my hands to a sturdy overhead pipe.
The gang members stood in a single row in front of me. Almost simultaneously, they all took off the heavy leather belts they were wearing and held them, doubled over rather menacingly, in their hands. Then the first guy in line approached me. He walked behind me and whipped my ass with his belt for 5 minutes. Then, the 2nd guy in line walked behind me and whipped my ass with his belt for the next 5 minutes Then the remaining 10 bikers took their turn, one after another, whipping my ass for a 5-minute period. I figured they had given me well over a thousand lashes during that hour-long belt whipping. (If you don't believe me, do the math yourself.) I did not make a single sound during the entire whipping, and that really pissed them off. They had obviously hoped to be entertained by hearing my cries and screams and pleading with them for mercy.
I privately chuckled at their disappointment. What they didn't know was that my father had been a career military soldier. And, as we all know from countless spanking-related postings, "military dads" believe in administering severe corporal punishment to their kids, and they invariably favor the use of the razor strap for that purpose.
My earliest memory of my dad was getting a spanking over his knees with his hand. I distinctly remember looking down at those rugged combat boots he was wearing as he spanked the living daylights out of me. By the time I was 7 years old, I had "graduated" from a hand spanking to getting a taste of dad's belt. He had a 1 3/4" wide black garrison belt that was well-worn from many years of use. He would double it over and whip my ass with it. Sometimes, though, when he was really angry with me, he would use a well-worn 1" wide belt instead. I discovered that the narrower belt hurt even worse than the wider one. Although he usually gave me only 1 or 2 dozen lashes with his garrison belt, when he used the narrower belt, he would sometimes give me as many as 50 lashes with it. Both cheeks of my butt recoiled from the intense sting as that belt struck each of them repetitively. I can still recall very vividly how it felt as though it had just occurred yesterday.
By the time I was a teenager, I remember my dad telling me that I was too old to get punished with his belt anymore. But my joy on hearing that was short-lived when he informed me that I had "graduated" from the belt to the razor strap! He said the razor strap would only be used for serious violations of his rules, but the punishment would always be the same number of lashes: 60! He said the first time that I got punished with the razor strap, the punishment would be divided up into 5 separate sessions of 12 lashes each, which would be given on successive days. But the 2nd time I violated his rules, the 60 lashes would be divided up into 4 separate sessions of 15 lashes each. For each violation thereafter, the number of sessions would be reduced by one, but the total number of lashes to be given would always be 60. Because I was quite unruly at that age, it didn't take long before I was getting all 60 lashes in one session. My frequent and lengthy sessions with dad's razor strap really toughened my ass. So the bikers' hour-long belt whipping seemed lightweight in comparison.
As I mentioned, the bikers were really pissed off because their heavy leather belts had not made much of an impression on me. I heard the leader ask another biker, "Jack, do you still have that bullwhip you used to practice with?" Jack said yes. The leader told Jack to bring it there right away. A few minutes later, Jack returned holding a 20-foot long bullwhip. The leader told me, "Now we're going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" He then told Jack, "Give him 200 lashes on his back with the bullwhip!" I didn't cry out even once during that bullwhipping.
What the bikers didn't know was that when I was a kid, I spent my summers at my grandfather's ranch. Gramps had been as much of a disciplinarian as my dad had been. Whenever I did something really bad, he would take me out to the barn. He would order me to remove my shirt. He would tie my hands to an overhead wooden beam. Then, he pulled out this mean-looking bullwhip and said "I used to use this bullwhip on your father when he was a teenager, and I guess I'm going to have to use it on you too until you learn to behave". Then he'd give me 10 lashes on my back with that bullwhip. I screamed each time that bullwhip struck my back. Because I had a wild streak in me, my back felt the sting of Grandpa's bullwhip many times over the years.
One time, I had been particularly bad, and I wondered what Grandpa was going to do to me. As usual, he took me out to the barn and tied my hands to an overhead beam. He said, "Boy, I'm going to teach you a good lesson now, the same lesson I once taught your dad. I'm going to teach you how to take a whipping without crying. He told me he was going to give me 10 lashes as usual, but each time I cried or screamed, he would increase the total number of lashes I'd receive by 2.
Grandpa then administered the first lash. I screamed from the pain as usual. Then Grandpa said, "The total number of lashes you're going to receive is now 12!" I was frightened when he said that. Then he laid on the 2nd lash. I screamed again. Then Grandpa said, "The total number of lashes is now 14". Then he laid on the 3rd lash. I pressed my lips together tightly to keep from screaming. But the pain got the better of me and I still screamed. "The total is now 16", Grandpa responded. I begin to panic. By the time the total had increased to 20 lashes, I knew I had to do something soon or the whipping would never end! I tightened my lips together again and then bit down on them with my teeth so much it hurt. When Grandpa laid on the next lash, I managed to take it without making any sound at all. After that, I was finally able to keep silent during the remaining lashes. So the whipping eventually came to an end.
The next time I saw my dad, I told him what Grandpa had done to me. He replied, "It was about time you learned to take your whippings like a man". Then Dad took off his own shirt and showed me the scars that Grandpa's bullwhip had left on his back when Grandpa had taught him that same lesson many years ago. After that, I felt closer to my dad as we now both shared something in common. And whenever Dad had to remind me that I was not too old to feel the sting of his razor strap, I didn't protest anymore but did my best to take my well-deserved whipping like a man.
And that explains why I was able to take that bullwhipping from the bikers without crying. Those bikers were now pissed off even more than they were before. But before they could think of something else they hoped would reduce me to tears, someone had apparently called the police, who burst into the room and broke up the bikers' fun and arrested them. The police didn't know how I had managed to endure all that pain. I told them the whippings weren't the problem. The real torture was the horrible smell. I don't think that the bikers knew what a shower or a bar of soap was!
For the curious, there was absolutely no shred of truth to this story. It was not so much a fantasy of mine, as it was a spoof, inspired by some of the exaggerated spanking-related posts I've seen elsewhere on the Internet. Unlike my other stories, this one intentionally suffers from what I refer to as "lash inflation". Now, I know there are guys out there who can take an extended whipping without crying. I personally gave one guy 100 lashes with a large Southern-style prison strap, and I never heard so much as a whimper from him during that entire whipping. [For details, see my post titled "My Favorite Xmas Gift - A Leather Prison Strap".]. But I'm sure there are a lot more guys like myself who have this compulsion to submit to the lash, but know they can't take a whipping, let us say, "gracefully".
I'm sure many of you have read or heard of the excessive flogging sentences dished out in the British Navy in the 19th century, amounting to several hundred lashes. However, if you investigate the sentences of corporal punishment that used to be administered in prisons, you'll probably find that 10 lashes was a much more common sentence.
While I'm sure many of you, like myself, have endured more lashes than that during a "recreational" whipping, there are differences. First, prisoners subjected to the "judicial" use of the lash were often punished with whips that would cut the flesh, either intentionally or through ignorance, causing bleeding and leaving the prisoner with permanent "stripes", not temporary bruise marks. Also, with a "judicial" whipping, the lashes were most likely delivered in a manner intended to cause immediate pain, not in a way that promoted a gradual buildup of tolerance to the lash.
The following is addressed mainly to (but not limited to) "bottoms" who have actually received a "recreational" whipping on their butt or their back. I would be interested in hearing what your thoughts and feelings were just before your punishment commenced and what you experienced when you were actually receiving the lashes. I've found few descriptions of people's actual experiences during a whipping. I realize that it may be hard to translate that experience into words, but I imagine other people might find it of value too, even if (or, some might add, especially if) it was a negative experience. One of my own posts titled "The Most Painful Whipping I Ever Received" is an attempt to present a factual account. If you read it, you'll find that I hardly glamorized the experience.
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