Benjamin was embarrassed, and he was hurting. Poor Benjamin was “riding the horse.” A curious, comical dance of lift, drop, point your toe, point your other toe and lift. His asshole was in agony from his dancing. Benjamin was sitting on the horse that he had built himself at the insistence of his father. The horse was a copy of the infamous punishment horses used by the military hundreds of years ago. The beam was made out of a solid piece of wood with the bottom spanning fourteen inches. The beam was cut at angles, forming a triangular prism, which left a single pointy edge facing straight up. The top of the beam had a thick wooden peg with deep wooden ridges, which was up Benjamin’s asshole. Poor Benjamin had to point his toe like a dancer to touch the ground. When one leg began to cramp, he would shift to the other. Benjamin’s hands were tied at the wrist and over his head; they were hooked to a hook hanging from a cable. The cable had a steel ring attached, and Benjamin could relieve the pain and cramps in his legs by lifting himself up with the ring. Of course, this put a strain on his shoulders and arms so he could not stand this for more than a few minutes. Benjamin was naked, and he was alone in his room, but the door was open, and he was visible to the four men playing cards and snacking in the other room.
The four men consisted of his father, his Uncle John, his brother Scott and his cousin George. His family had all seen him earlier and had pithy comments about the state he was in and also how it was good to see him like this. They had all grown bored with watching him ride the horse and had left him to contemplate his fate and endure the pain and humiliation. Benjamin was in the first hour of a two-hour sentence on the horse. He could feel the sweat drip down his chest and back, his legs were in almost constant cramp now and his shoulders constant pain.
Benjamin would have a choice to make at the end of two hours. Benjamin could choose two more hours or forty with the cane. Benjamin would pick the cane. Some extras went with the caning, and he knew it, but he could not do the horse any longer. If he were given a bargaining chip right now, he would agree to anything. Benjamin knew that at the very least his caning would be humiliating and painful. He would be bent over the very horse he was now riding, his wrists would be attached to a horse leg, his ass would be high, his legs spread and attached to horse legs, his balls would be splayed on the side of the peak; they would not be spared punishment. His father would use the small swatter on his balls. There would be twenty hits. He would try not to cry, to beg or to plead, but he knew that by the time his father had given him ten, he would be in a blubbering, sobbing state and willing to do anything to stop the torment, but it would be twenty. No more. No less.
And then there would be the caning. Benjamin knew he could stand that. There would be forty strokes. No more, no less than forty. They would all be on his ass. He would try to endure it. As for now, Benjamin still had more riding to do. The men came in to piss and spit on him. The urine and spit only add to his discomfort and the humiliation.
There was an adorable pink party dress hanging in the corner of the room. It was a child’s dress with short puffed sleeves and a tie that went around the waist and would tie in the back with a big girly bow. There were layers of white petticoats that went under the short skirt. Just below the dress sitting on the floor was a pair of white, open toe, six-inch stiletto heel shoes. Benjamin has been looking at the dress for the hour he had been on the horse. Uncle John had purchased the dress just for Benjamin. The shoes had been ordered online by his father, and the petticoats had come from a square dance shop that his brother knew of. Benjamin knew that his cousin had purchased a shiny pair of nude pantyhose and ruffled sissy panties in pink and white from the same square dance shop. The four men had all agreed that the outfit was adorable and any six-year-old girl would love to wear it. Earlier, in fact, an hour earlier Benjamin had argued that he was indeed not a six-year-old girl and no way was he going to wear that dress. Right now there was nothing Benjamin wanted more than to wear that dress as long as it would get him off the horse. No amount of begging and pleading had gotten him off the horse. No amount of begging and pleading would change or reduce the ball swats. No amount of begging and pleading would change or reduce the caning. Benjamin would do the two hours on the horse, take the ball beating and the ass caning and wear the dress.
By the fifth stroke of the swatter, Benjamin was crying like a schoolboy. He was trying to kick his legs, but they were bound to the horse, he was trying to cover his balls with his hands, but they were tied to the horse legs. Even though gagged the men could still hear Benjamin plead with his father to please stop and let him wear the dress. But he had to receive the full twenty. His brother, uncle and cousin watched and smiled. They were past the shock and awe of the pain and humiliation Benjamin had to endure. By the thirteenth stroke, Benjamin was drenched in sweat and had pissed himself. He had slowed his thrashing and when a stroke was administered he just let out a pathetic little sob. They all felt sorry for him at some level, but he would get the full twenty. No more. No less.
Benjamin wanted to plead for the caning to stop, but he knew he would receive the full forty strokes. Pleading and begging would be of no use. Fifteen strokes. His skin was broken, the blood running down in rivulets to his swollen balls before dripping to the floor into the puddle of piss. His cheeks were mottled. His father and uncle watched and laughed at his antics when his balls smashed into the wooden horse as his cousin caned his ass. At twenty-three strokes, Benjamin was a beaten boy both physically and emotionally. He knew it, and the four men knew it. They all felt mercy for him at some level, but he would get the full forty. No more. No less.
“We can’t have you stiff and sore for your dancing, now can we, fag?”
Still draped over the horse, his father rubbed a soothing lotion into Benjamin’s posterior and on his balls. His brother, Scott, massaged his aching shoulders and neck while his uncle and cousin massaged his legs and feet. There would be a time of recovery, and then he would be dressed.
He just sobbed. The memory of the horse, the ball swats, and the ass caning was too fresh in his mind to argue with these men. Benjamin did not really want to dance for the men. It would not be just the four of them it would be a whole room full of men. Oh, there would be boys there too. Boys like him wearing little frilly party dresses and stilettos. They would clap at his dancing and pretend to enjoy his humiliation knowing that their day would come.