When a 19 yo takes a summer job at a farm operated by his best friend's older brother, he quickly finds himself on the receiving end of a stinging whip expertly wielded by his iron-fisted boss and two horny black co-workers. Art by Neil Bruce of Bearoticart.com
Taking the Whip - Part 1
by Whiplash235
Series: Taking the Whip
Art by Neil Bruce at Bearoticart.com
I was about 19 years old when I spent the summer working on Jonathan’s brother’s farm. Jonathan and I were good friends at high school in Bloemfontein, South Africa, though he was a little strange at times; for example, he never took off his shirt, even on the hottest days, and when we went swimming he always kept on a T-shirt. When I told him that I was looking forward to a very boring summer, now that we had finished high school, he looked hard at me and said, “If you really have nothing to do, you could come and work on my brother Steve’s farm for a few months.”
I thought that was a great idea.
“I should warn you that Steve is a stickler for getting things done his way, and he doesn’t like anyone answering him back.”
I didn’t see how that would be a problem, and so I looked forward to a healthy summer outdoors, which would certainly keep me fit.
The very first day Steve set us to clearing a field near the main farm buildings. There were seven of us working together: four African youths whose names were Nhlanhla, Sikhumbuzo, Sanele and Jabulani; Frank, another friend of ours from high school, Jonathan, and me. It was a hot day, and the work was very physical, digging out quite large rocks and tree stumps which sometimes took four or even five of us to drag to the side of the field. We were all quite cheerful though, and I thought the work was progressing well enough since there was an impressive array of rocks and stumps building up on the sides of the large field. We worked until lunch time, took a break and then got back to it with a will in the early afternoon. By then Nhlanhla and Sanele had taken off their shirts, and I could not help noticing how lean and fit they looked; I was already quite trim, but I knew I could look even better after a few months hard labour like this, or so I thought.
Steve arrived not long after we started again. He was driving a white bakkie with no canopy, and he got out and surveyed the work we had done up to then. I got the impression that he was taking a long look at me and sizing me up in some way, though I had no idea what that might mean. I expected him to be pleased, but he was frowning terribly. He was a slightly older version of Jonathan, though more muscular; his cream shirt was unbuttoned all the way down to his waist, revealing a hint of smooth chest and flat ribbed stomach. I had never seen such a frown on Jonathan’s face, and it was spoiling my good humour. He called us over.
“What exactly have you been doing all morning?” he asked angrily. “I wanted to bring the tractor in this afternoon, but there’s no chance of that now.”
The others kept their eyes on the ground, but I was new here, and I didn’t think he was being very fair or grateful. Jonathan’s warning was far from my mind as I said, “We have been working. Maybe you should give us a hand and see just how tough it is.”
No one looked up at my words, but from the corner of my eye I detected something like a secret smile on Nhlanhla’s face. I kept my attention on Steve.
He did not reply to me at first, but spoke to Jonathan, “You haven’t told him, have you…never mind, he’ll learn quickly enough.” Then to me, “You’re going to learn that I don’t put up with lip, and if you offer it, you’d better be ready for the consequences – Jonathan, take off your shirt and show him what happens when people don’t give me the respect I deserve.”
I was nonplussed by this unexpected reply and had no further answer as I watched Jonathan slowly undo the buttons of his shirt and then push it over his shoulders and let it fall around the waist of his trousers. It was the first time I had ever seen his bare torso, and his light brown body was developing nicely to mimic his brother’s in muscle and trim. When he put his hands on his head and turned around, I was completely speechless. His smooth brown back was criss-crossed with lines that I immediately realized could only have come from a whip. I gulped hard, trying to understand what I was seeing. The marks were surely the result of repeated beatings; I understood now why Jonathan never took off his shirt at school, and I wondered for a moment whether he took the punishments as calmly as he was showing me the results.
I turned to Steve. “You…whip…your…brother,” I stuttered, “that can’t be right.”
Steve smiled cruelly. “That’s enough from you,” he said. “You’re going to learn right now that what I say goes on this farm. Nhlanhla, Sikhumbuzo take him to the barn and get him ready.”
I was too bewildered to resist, and I let the two of them each take an arm and march me quickly to a large barn that was to the right of the main building and just to the left of the dormitories where we had slept the previous night. I was still trying to make sense of what was going on – I certainly did not believe that it was actually happening. Steve used a whip on his brother? Impossible in this day and age, yet I had seen the marks on Jonathan’s bare back to prove it, and the mournful look on his face while he turned around. Did he stand there and take it, or was he held or restrained…perhaps by these two strong youths who were gripping me uncompromisingly as they marched me through the door into the barn?
It was a large structure, with high windows that let in plenty of light, though none at ground level. On one side there was a huge stack of bales of hay, so high that I wondered how anyone managed to place the uppermost ones. Nhlanhla and Sikhumbuzo pushed me to the other side, where I noticed some wooden beams supporting an open floor above. One of the beams, near a table, had two metal rings hanging from it about a meter apart; Nhlanhla was pushing the hay around with his bare feet and I saw two wooden pegs hammered into the floor more or less directly under the metal rings.
He looked at me with a grin on his face, his dark lean body gleaming with sweat. “Come on, take off your shirt,” he said. “If he finds you stripped and ready, he might go easy on you…not that ten lashes is easy, but it is easier than twenty.”
I could not believe what I was hearing and so I just stood there gazing at Nhlanhla stupidly. ‘Stripped and ready’, ‘ten lashes’ what was he talking about. I looked at the metal rings and wooden pegs – was this where Jonathan…and now they were going to do the same to me? Suddenly I felt Sikhumbuzo’s hands pulling my shirt out of the back of my trousers and his rough hands pushed against my skin as he forced the shirt upwards. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes, well, sort of anyway, and I’m not getting a whipping because we didn’t get you ready quickly enough.” Nhlanhla grabbed my wrists and forced my arms out in front of me; together they pulled the shirt over my head, along my arms and then Nhlanhla tossed it on the table. Before I could react to the fact that I was bare from the waist up, they each took one of the short lengths of rope lying on the table and quickly secured my wrists to the metal rings. I still could not accept what was happening; my confused struggles were useless – and late – once they had tied my wrists. I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself and slow my rapidly beating heart. I didn’t even think of kicking out or otherwise resisting as they took off my takkies and fastened my bare feet to the wooden pegs on the floor. In less than a minute I was stripped to the waist and spread-eagled out; I could feel droplets of sweat trickling down my bare chest and back, gathering to form a damp patch at the waist of my trousers. Was this how Jonathan took his punishments, stripped bare and helplessly tied while the whip cut his back? I began to shiver and tremble. Surely this was some sort of joke, and they were going to leave me for a moment or two, and then have a good laugh about how frightened I was and how I didn’t put up much of a struggle.
Nhlanhla and Sikhumbuzo came round to face me, obviously enjoying their handiwork. As they both stood there grinning, I noticed something in Nhlanhla’s eyes that suggested he really liked what he was looking at, and I felt a strange tremor in the pit of my stomach. I also saw that Nhlanhla’s lithe form bore no marks, but when I looked at Sikhumbuzo, I knew this was no joke. He too had taken off his shirt and was now clad in nothing but a pair of khaki shorts that somehow framed his stocky muscular body…which was criss-crossed back and front by the marks of more than one whipping. Nhlanhla saw me staring and swallowing hard. Even though I was stripped and helpless, I started to pull at the restraints; I was horribly conscious of more sweat trickling down my body, and I struggled vainly because they had secured me well. I could only wait for Steve…and his whip.
“I honestly think,” Nhlanhla said conversationally, watching me for a reaction, “that Sikhumbuzo here somehow enjoys the whipping; he sometimes seems to rile Steve deliberately so that we can all come in here and watch him writhe to the rhythm of Steve’s lash across his body.”
As I imagined the khaki clad youth stretched out between the restraints, twisting this way and that as Steve delivered cutting strokes with a whip while the others looked on, there was a totally unexpected stirring in my groin. I could hear the swish of the lash through the air and the terrible thud of leather on skin as each blow fell, and Sikhumbuzo arching helplessly against each cut. My member was reacting strangely to the image, but I started trembling again when I realized that now I was the one stretched out between restraints and horribly defenceless, apparently waiting for a whip to start cutting my own bare body. This could not be happening to me! Yet there was another feeling growing in me, despite my fear and confusion; I could almost enjoy the way Nhlanhla was looking at me. There was a certain excitement at being stretched out, naked from the waist up, wholly at the mercy of these two youths: Nhlanhla, dark and lean, standing there looking at me with his hands on his hips and an expectant smile on his face; a different type of excitement emanating from Sikhumbuzo, one that suggested that he was going to enjoy watching someone twist and turn as a whip was laid across his back. I was moving from the idea that this was impossible to a sort of gratitude that these two had got me ready quickly, so I would only have to endure ten lashes rather than more. If Steve was going to punish me I had no choice now but to take it…then I remembered the muscular body I had glimpsed under that cream shirt, and I started trembling again at the thought of the whipping Steve could administer.
“It’s not the whip itself that I enjoy,” said Sikhumbuzo, also staring at me intently now, “but the challenge of enduring it. When you are stripped and helpless,” here Sikhumbuzo ran his hands up and down my sides. I stupidly and uselessly tried to pull away, though the sensation of his rough hands caressing my body was not so unpleasant, and his hands strayed around my back to pull me against him. “When you are bare and defenceless,” he continued, “the only dignity you have is to endure the punishment. The problem is that a whip cuts deep, and the pain does not peak, it just gets worse and worse, and there’s nothing a person can do because the restraints keep you exactly where Steve wants you, and his whip cuts you…on and on…until he decides that you have had enough. The challenge is to take it for as long as he dishes it out.” He stepped back and looked over at Nhlanhla. “I think he’s saving you for something special.”
Now it was Nhlanhla’s turn to stroke and caress my chest, sides and stomach. “I know,” he said, “and that’s why I’m always happy to see newcomers like you and Frank. For as long as Steve has fresh victims to test with the whip, he seems to leave me alone, at least as far as the lash is concerned.” His wandering fingers rested at the waist of my trousers, casually stroking the hairs that led down to my groin.
I said nothing. There was nothing I could say, and besides, I was struggling with the fear – and desire – that Nhlanhla might push his hand down the front of my trousers and feel for himself the way my unruly member was stiffening mightily. It was quite ridiculous: I was stripped to the waist and helplessly restrained, waiting for Steve to come in with his whip, but I was getting a fierce erection. The truth was that, despite the fear and trembling at the thought of a whip laid across my bare back, I was becoming more and more aroused: naked from the waist up, my wrists and ankles tightly bound, I was experiencing a mixture of fear and excitement that was leading me to things I had never imagined. I had moved from the idea that this was unbelievable to a different view; I accepted the challenge that my body looked good, and I almost enjoyed, if that was the right word, the feeling of helplessness, of being at the mercy of these good-looking, athletic youths; I was simply going to have to deal with the whip when it started cutting me. I stretched myself against the restraints as though to emphasize my vulnerability and I saw another look cross Nhlanhla’s face, one that suggested he might be picturing me completely naked, and liking that idea very much.
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GayBondageFiction - February 19, 2016, 1:27 pm
Great story. Welcome Whiplash235!
Bullwhip - April 20, 2018, 4:18 pm
Endure the punishment, embrace the pain! What it means to be a man…taking the WHIP!