Young Ropers - Part 2

Original story by Bob Wingate – Updated 2022

Saturday morning, the mule skinners untied us from our sleeping bags and we tried to clean them out the best we could.  Then the mule skinners tossed us into a water tank to clean up since most of us were covered in our own shit.  After chowing down on more cold beans and somewhat less castor oil, our mule skinners freed our hands and put us through an hour or so of PT: endless push-ups, jumping-jacks, leg-lifts and sit-ups. By now the day was getting hotter than hell so we were given a short break for water, having been told by the doctor to drink plenty of it.

As soon as we had drunk our fill, we were allowed to have some sunscreen, especially for those less exposed areas below the belt, but with the stipulation that we were not to rub it on ourselves. Since the doc had warned us not to overlook our gonads, all eight of us found ourselves in the embarrassing position of being forced to handle each other’s cocks and balls. We were deluged with raucous catcalls and laughter when the mule skinners discovered that most of us had sprouted hard-ons as the result of having our cocks massaged by our partner’s oily hands. This, of course, gave some asshole the brilliant idea that each boy should keep yanking on his buddy’s pecker until he came. My brain was flooded with mixed feelings as my partner who, luckily, was Garth, went to work jacking me off in front of the jeering crowd.

In spite of all the good feelings Garth’s hands were giving me as he milked my shaft, I was also fighting a lot of guilt and embarrassment. The guilt came mostly from the fact that it hadn’t been all that long since my father had last whipped my ass for jerking off. I remembered all too well that day when, just before moving to Texas, my father had caught me soaking in a hot bathtub with my cock in my fist. Now, at this point, I was having real uneasy thoughts about what might happen if my father ever happened to hear about what Garth and I had done to each other. I was pretty sure that he would probably start whipping me again and it wouldn’t matter a rat’s ass that I had been given no choice in the matter.

At least some of the embarrassment I was feeling was caused by having my minister see what Garth and I were doing with each other’s penises. I do remember being kind of surprised that neither the doc nor Pastor Peterson took any steps to stop the action. Our pastor back in Minnesota had been very prissy and uptight and would have had a stroke had he seen what we were doing to each other. It was on that weekend that I learned just how callused and tough Texas men and boys can be; even ministers, most of whom I had always thought were sort of sissy.

After our cocks had been pumped dry, it was time for the donkey races. This time when the bits were fastened in our mouths, they had short leather reins attached to them. No sooner had we been made to crouch on all fours at the starting line with a mule skinner mounted on our backs than the gun went off starting the stampede for the finish line.

The total distance was probably no more than one-tenth of a mile, although at the time it seemed more like ten miles. This was because, in addition to having a heavy load on our backs, each of us was being tailed by what was called a “wand wizard,” which, in reality, was just a goddam mule skinner brandishing a hot shot. Even though the voltage was much lower than what would be used on thick-skinned livestock, the jolts could still light up your eyeballs. Most of the zaps Troy hit me with were aimed directly at my asshole although, periodically, he would stoop over so he could blast me right in the balls. Not very many boys got to the finish line without tears in their eyes and a few had emptied their bowels along the way, due no doubt to a lethal combination of laxatives and electricity. If it hadn’t been for our leather work gloves and the knee pads we’d been issued, there would have been no skin left on our hands and knees.

As soon as I collapsed over the finish line, I knew what was in store for us when I saw all the mule skinners skimming off their wide leather belts. In less than a minute all of us except the winner were crawling through a forest of booted legs having our bare asses whipped good.

As soon as lunch was finished, the members saddled their horses for a game called “Chase the Horsy” in which each initiate is tethered on a rope behind a horse for a two-mile run. To add a little spice, another mounted rider follows alongside swinging at the victim’s backside with a large paddle. My hands were untied just long enough for me to go put on my socks and boots after which I was quickly surrounded by my three mule skinners who went to work on me with a vengeance. After putting the bit back in my mouth, they took a long coil of rope, bound my wrists tightly together in front of me and tied the other end to the saddle of Justin’s horse.

The worst part came when they started rubbing Ben Gay into my cock, balls, buttocks and even up my asshole. Since I am uncircumcised, they seemed to take special pleasure in sliding back my foreskin and rubbing the fire grease around what would normally be the underneath side. After sliding my prepuce back over the head, they decided to clip a couple of clothes pins to the loose skin. As an afterthought, Craig picked up a smooth stone, wrapped it with rope, and tied the other end to my ball sac so it would dangle just above my knees. Justin then bellowed as how, since that looked “so fuckin’ purty,” maybe they ought to tie another rope around my cock and balls and fasten it to the saddle, too. It didn’t take me very long to figure out that I would either keep up with the gait of the horse, or I would find myself being dragged behind it by my hands and balls. Just before mounting up, Troy and all the other members who would be riding shotgun, went and picked up their paddles.

The paddles they used on us that weekend were of unfinished wood and had obviously been cut from the same pattern. Since they were intended to be wielded occasionally while on horseback, these boards were somewhat longer than the average fraternity paddle. They were probably a little over three feet in length, four inches wide, and close to an inch thick. Their size and weight, in addition to the fact that they also had some sizable holes drilled through them, meant that these hummers could pack one hell of a wallop, especially if gripped with both hands. When fired off under enough cowboy power, these boards would really explode on your tail raising blue welts on your ass wherever your hide came through the holes. If you got paddled long enough and hard enough, you would most likely end up with welts stacked on top of welts.

As soon as all the preparations had been made, everybody got into traveling formation. Each of the eight groups consisted of the lead horse and rider followed by the poor jackass tethered to it on the end of a rope. On his left was the man riding shotgun, but armed with his paddle instead of a rifle. The sponsors and the mule skinners not directly involved were also mounted and were scattered around on both sides of the line. For a sixteen-year-old, even though I was a pretty big boy, it was still fucking intimidating to be standing on foot, naked and tied to the back of a horse, surrounded by so many mounted men. What made it even more awesome was that these dudes were muscular and powerfully built and most of them were stripped to the waist wearing only boots, hats, gloves and Wranglers. Even though I was scared shitless, I couldn’t help noticing that even Pastor Petersen had shed his shirt and was showing off a washboard torso which out-rippled most of the other men in the party.

When the starting signal was given, I was careful to keep my eye on Jason’s horse in front of me. I probably began moving even before it did. Even though I was able to keep up with the gait Jason was setting, Troy seemed to enjoy seeing how many wallops he could land on my bare ass with his paddle. By the time we had reached the end of the line, all eight of us jackasses were still on our feet although, to a man, we had bright red asses. Even though I had tried to run bowlegged, I still had some bruises on my legs where the stone hanging from my balls had banged against them.

As soon as we had been untied from the horses, we were told it was now rest time. I assumed we were going to be allowed to crash on the ground for a siesta. Instead, the eight of us were taken over to a triple split rail fence. After being relieved of our socks and boots, our mule skinners tied our forearms horizontally behind our backs and attached the end of the rope to the D-rings in our collars hoisting our arms high up on our backs. After blindfolding us with our bandannas and rubbing a fresh coating of Ben Gay into our asscracks, our mule skinners picked us up bodily and heaved us astride the fence making certain that the cracks of our asses were perfectly aligned and shoved down into the ridge on the top of the diamond-shaped rail. Then they placed our ankles, one over the other and bound them together under the middle rail. Since there was no way we could push up with our feet, our already sore asses had to bear the full weight of our bodies. As though this would not have caused me enough misery, my mule skinners had rubbed Ben Gay into my nipples and had fastened clothespins to them. It was a miserable couple of hours. In spite of our gags and our heroic efforts to act like men, an occasional whimper would be heard from some suffering jackass. Absolutely no mercy was shown by the mule skinners and, by the time we were taken down from the fence, our blindfolds were pretty well soaked with tears and sweat.

After this ordeal I could hardly stand upright and my biggest fear was that the mile skinners were going to run us back to camp tied behind the horses. Instead, we were marched back to camp chain-gang style, tied ankle to ankle, with a few feet of rope between each one of us; enough rope so that the guys on horseback could still get at us with their paddles. To allow easy access to our asses, our mule skinners had left our arms bound together and fastened to the rings in the backs of our dog collars.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

Saturday night, again we started zipped into our sleeping bags.  After about an hour, we heard the mule skinners coming into our camping area.  Like Friday, we were unzipped, blindfolded, and lead away into the woods.

As Craig, Justin, and Troy cracked open beers, I was hog-tied and forced to lick each cowboy’s boots.  The guys drank and laughed watching me licking the dirt and shit off their boots.

Finally, Troy said, “Well jack ass, you know that tonight, part of the initiation is to show you how you treat a fellow rodeo pard who can’t get any pussy.  You take some cock to show your friendship.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Later I found out that the club president was upset that the mule skinners only had us suck cock and that they hadn’t rammed their dicks up our asses.  Tonight, was supposed to make up for that oversight.

A saddle was on a wooden stand by the campfire and I was tied over the saddle; my wrists and ankles to the wooden stand legs.  My ass in perfect position for a cowboy to come up and fuck me.

While each cowboy took his turn fucking my hole while the other two watched and gave advice on to best fuck a boy.  Shit, it was bad enough having to take cock up my hole, but to be on display felt like I was fucking whore.

Troy went first and he lubed my hole and then came up behind me.  I felt his chaps on my legs and then the head of his cock finding my lubed hole and starting to snake its way up my hole.  I couldn’t believe how much it hurt to take his dick up my virgin hole.  I was glad to be gagged.  I squirmed and cried but to no avail.

Craig and Justin laughed at my predicament and knew it was the first time to get my hole popped.  Troy banged me until I felt his cum up my hole.

“Well boy, now you’re no longer a virgin.  You had a good cowboy fuck”, said Troy as he zipped up his Wranglers.

Justin hopped in next and was inside me quickly.  Justin being second was a little easier, but damn, it still hurt and I couldn’t believe I was being raped.  Craig made me look at his cock while Justin was banging me.  Troy kept telling Justin to ride me harder as he sipped his beer.

After Justin came inside me, he said, “Damn boy, your hole is a great fuck.  I may want to ride that later this year.”

Craig finished the game with his fuck.  Craig was bigger than the other two and his cock hurt really bad in my hole, even though Troy and Justin had previously stretched me.

I was glad when they were finished and I was untied from the saddle, retied, and led back to my stinking sleeping bag.  As the other boys came back, we all knew that each of us had been raped.

Just before sunup, Derek again was led back to camp. We all knew that as bad as our fucking had been, Derek’s was probably much worse.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

At reveille early Sunday morning, each jackass was picked up bodily in his sleeping bag by his mule skinners and dumped out naked onto the ground. I knew I was in trouble when I saw that Craig, Justin and Troy already had their paddles with them. As soon as they had untied me, they grabbed my arms under my shoulders and dragged me off into a clump of trees where they could work me over in relative privacy. They allowed me barely enough time to piss and shit before putting me through my morning PT. Unlike the previous morning, I was put through my paces alone under the close supervision of my three tormentors who would paddle me most anytime my ass was exposed, especially while doing jumping-jacks and pushups.

As soon as breakfast was finished, the jackasses were forced to do the sunscreen and jerkoff routine again in front of the group. When we had drained each other, we were lined up and made to stand at attention while the members prepared us for the next activity. Having been given knee pads and gloves, twelve-foot lengths of rope were then tied to the rings in our collars. After we had once again been gagged with bits, we were led out to where a wagon wheel had been attached horizontally to the top of a five-foot fence post sunk upright in the ground. When our ropes had been fastened to the wheel the eight of us were ordered down on all fours. Then we were straddled by the club members, now stripped to the waist, who rode us around in circles like ponies in a carousel while they whipped our naked flanks with riding crops, belts or pieces of leather rein.

When the mule skinners finally tired of riding us they took a short break to get their paddles. Then they ordered us up off our knees and we were made to continue going around in circles, this time on our hands and feet with our bodies arched in the air. This, of course, made our asses perfect targets for the paddles. Whenever one of us collapsed from exhaustion, causing the carousel to grind to a halt, some asshole was always on hand to beat our butts continuously until we resumed our painful crawl.

By midmorning our black and blue asses made it obvious that none of us would be able to sit comfortably again for a long time. It was at this time that we were forced to sit for an hour while Pastor Petersen conducted our own church service. Just before the service began, in one-hundred-degree heat, we jackasses were issued woolen army blankets and ordered to cover our nakedness. In my case, the scratchy blanket rubbing against my sweaty, scratched and bruised body was a torture all by itself; an even bigger torture than church usually was.

I remember thinking, as I sat there fidgeting on my well-beaten butt, with every bone in my body aching, what irony it was to be listening to a sermon about the precious joys of brotherhood, and of the fellowship we were privileged to share as young men in the company of each other. As my pastor compared our companionship as Young Ropers to that of Christ and his disciples, I wondered grimly if the disciples had also been beaten black and blue before being allowed to join The Twelve. Somehow, I couldn’t quite picture it. As I think back on it now, this was probably the only sermon I ever heard Pastor Petersen preach which was pure bullshit. The only good news was that we were able to rest for an hour and have our hands untied which felt really good.

While the sermon droned on, I looked at Derek J. Derek was, hands down, the best-looking stud being initiated. He was eighteen years old, fresh out of high school, and had just gotten married in May. Not only that, but his wife was already pregnant with their first child. Derek was tall and well-built, with fairly massive shoulders which tapered down to a slender waist and a nice, round ass. He was equipped with a thick, beautifully formed circumcised penis which hung down at least six issues when soft. Derek had dark wavy hair and the kind of sexy blue eyes which melted the heart of every girl in the high school.

As Pastor Petersen babbled on and on, I remember wondering what it must be like for Derek to have to submit to having another man’s hand on his penis and fuck, even up his ass too. The club members had taken Derek’s wedding ring away from him before we had even left town and now, for some reason, they seemed to be giving him even more shit than they were giving the rest of us. Derek’s personal mule skinners, who were among the oldest of the Ropers, really seemed to have it in for him. For one thing, they were forever rubbing Ben Gay on his cock and balls and up his asscrack even when the rest of us weren’t getting it. They had also taken a razor and shaved Derek’s head as bald as a billiard ball. In addition, it was obvious to me, at least, that they were giving Derek an awful lot of extra paddling. There were several times that weekend when they even made him bend over and grab his ankles in front of the group while one or more of them put the wood to his ass.

I also could not help wondering that Derek’s mule skinners, equipped with their flashlights and paddles, had taken him off alone each night while the rest of us were being zipped into our sleeping bags. As they led him away, his hands would be tied behind his back and I could see that he had been gagged and blindfolded as well. From the redness and puffiness around his eyes each morning, I was pretty sure that he had been crying. I also couldn’t help noticing at PT time Saturday morning, that Derek’s mule skinners had wrapped a lot of coarse rope around the top of his ball sac, distending it and making his nuts look like two red plums.

Several months later, Garth, who had been in Derek’s wedding, told me what he had learned about what had been done to Derek during those midnight sessions. Among other things, Derek had been kept tied up, paddled, and had been made to suck his mule skinner’s cocks before he had to take their cocks up his ass all night long.  His muleskinners told him they had to train him where babies

came from and that he need more babyseed inside him.  As they were fucking his ass, they told him they were making love to his sweetheart wife.  They were just cruel mean to Derek.  They treated him mercilessly, but damn, he put up and finished out his hazing.

As soon as the boring service ended all hell broke loose again. The next activity on the schedule was a rodeo in which the mule skinners were the contestants and we were the livestock. We were taken, one at a time, and chased frantically around a pen until finally, exhausted, we would feel the lasso tighten around our chests. As the rider dismounted, the horse, which had been trained to back up by itself, would keep the rope taut against our chests until the rider could throw us to the ground. In normal calf roping, after the contestant has thrown the calf to the ground, he ties three of its legs together. However, with us, the second we bit the dust we found ourselves being hogtied, both wrists tied to both ankles behind our backs. Having been tightly trussed we would be half carried, half dragged to the sidelines where we had to lie helplessly until all eight of us had been roped and tied.

 After lunch, the jackasses were once again subjected to the indignity of being bound for a run behind the horses. This time we were driven a mile or so out to a sunbaked patch of clay where the eight of us were staked out, spreadeagled, in a circle around a big anthill. I couldn’t believe this was actually happening to me. I felt as though I was some fucking settler who had been captured by the Indians as the mule skinners drizzled a thick sticky substance from the anthill over between our legs, up our groins and all over our hairless cocks and balls. Luckily, however, instead of slitting our eyelids in traditional Indian style, forcing us to stare at the sun until our eyes were fried, we were mercifully blindfolded instead. Then we were left alone for what seemed forever to wait for those little varmints to trail their way up our gooey crotches. Although I did get bitten pretty bad, especially on my balls, the worst part of this stake-out torture was psychological more than physical. Before the Ropers and their sponsors rode away leaving us to our fate, they told us they were going off to have a meeting to decide which ones of us had passed the test and were worthy to become club members.

At last, after what I guessed was about three hours, we heard the horses approaching and were finally untied from the stakes. Instead of making us hoof it back on foot we were tossed still blindfolded over the backs of horses with a rope connecting our wrists to our feet and hauled, corpse-style back to camp where we were literally tossed into a tank of water and told to clean ourselves up. I don’t remember a bath ever feeling so good!

As soon as we climbed out of the water we were made to line up and stand at attention to dry in the sun while the Roper president continued to fuck with our minds. He told us that it was the decision of the members that some of us had definitely proved our manhood more successfully than others, and that this had been a very difficult decision for the members to make. After playing cat and mouse with us for about five minutes, he pulled a list out of his shirt pocket and announced that he was going to read the names of the men who had been voted into Young Ropers.

I started counting on my fingers as he slowly read off the names. I was really happy, of course, when he read my name, but I was just as tickled a second later when I realized that he had read all eight names. Eight happier boys would be hard to imagine, and we quickly found ourselves hugging each other and dancing around wildly in circles. After we had calmed down, the president gave us our instructions for the coming week. We were also issued two bright red Roper T-shirts apiece, one of which we were to wear every day along with our dog collars until we were formally sworn into the club the next Friday night in the basement of the Lutheran Church.

After our clothes had been returned to us we saddled our horses for the ride back to town. I can’t remember my clothes ever feeling so restrictive or uncomfortable as they did that day. The eight of us were battered, sore and mentally exhausted. But you can bet your sweet ass that this didn’t keep any of us from feeling real proud that we had proved ourselves men enough to be voted into the Young Ropers Club.

The Ropers played an important part in my life for the next couple years until I graduated from high school and went into the Marines. Having lived a pretty isolated life on our farm in Minnesota, I hadn’t realized just how much I had craved the company of other young men my age. Up to that point in my life, I had always been slow to make friends and develop relationships with people, even when I wanted to. As hellish as the Roper initiation was, the hazing I got that weekend was a real milestone in my growth and development because it forced me to get nose to nose with those men in a hurry. It was also in Young Ropers that I learned about the almost mystical bond which develops between men who find themselves giving and receiving pain in a dominant/submissive relationship.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

Our first year in Young Ropers, we rodeoed hard and as a team did really well in the rodeo standings.  At each rodeo there were plenty of teenage girls hanging out wanting to be our buckle bunnies and I didn’t hear too many times that guys couldn’t get pussy if they wanted it.

I was surprised besides the women; faggot boys would also hang around the cowboys.  Sometimes, the older senior cowboys would lead a faggot boy to our motel where he would have to take cock from any of the Young Ropers who wanted.  It seemed odd at first, but I figured out that those fag boys took man sex much rougher than the girls would.  That seemed to turn-on for many of the cowboys who enjoyed fucking a guy’s hole as rough and hard as they wanted.  Generally, the cowboys with an empty bed in their room had to let the faggot be tied up in the spare bed to be used all night long.

Once, Garth and I ended up with the spare bed.  All night long cowboys kept coming in and fucking that poor faggot bitch boy.  We didn’t get any sleep and I made sure we never had the empty bed after that.

A couple of different times I fucked the faggot’s ass, and hell yeah, they were a ton of fun to pound his used, wet, cum-filled hole as hard as you wanted.  The fag was bound and couldn’t escape, but it was fun to ride his ass hard and watch him struggle at his ropes.

In the morning, the fag would be untied and he would stagger away still half naked with cowboy cum dripping from his abused hole.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

Before we knew it, our first year as a Young Rider came to an end.  We were no longer the “rookies”.  We all snuck away and had a keg party in a local rancher’s field to celebrate the end of the season.

Come summer, when school was out, again, the Young Riders selected a new round of “rookies”.

We had the same annual rookie initiation that we had gone through.  Garth and I were muleskinners together along with another Craig.  We enjoyed punishing our jackass, the same way we were punished.  We even forced him to suck our dicks and fuck his ass at night, just like we were.  Hell, we weren’t about to show that jackass any mercy!  He survived, just like we did and made him tougher going through that very long weekend.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

Missed the beginning? - Young Ropers - Part 1

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Young Ropers - Part 1

 Original story by Bob Wingate – Updated 2022

I grew up on a small farm in Minnesota during the sixties and early seventies as the only child of deeply religious parents who were pillars of the local Swedish Lutheran Church. Their philosophy of parenting is best illustrated by the well-used length of heavy cowhide which hung from a hook on the back porch, over which was tacked a little hand-lettered, cardboard sign reading: “HE WHO SPARES THE ROD HATES HIS SON. BUT HE WHO LOVES HIM IS CAREFUL TO DISCIPLINE HIM.” — Proverbs 13:24. The one thing my father will never be accused of is “sparing the rod.”

As I was growing up, although my parents often punished me by “grounding” me, assigning me extra chores, washing out my mouth with soap, or sending me to my room without any supper, the one punishment I could always count on, in addition to all of the others, would be a trip to the utility shed for a whipping. To make it even worse, rather than taking me out there right away and punishing me on the spot, my father would often make me sweat out a whole day or more with the threat of a beating hanging over my head.

I was in the seventh grade when my father decided that I was old enough to graduate from over-the-knee-spankings in his bedroom to real, man-sized whippings in the shed. Since he had grown tired of my kicking and squirming and trying to protect my ass during spankings, he decided it would be better for me, as well as more manly, if I had no control over what was happening to me. Consequently, from then on, I was to be tied over a sawhorse for my whippings. To make the whole thing even worse, my father gave me the job of installing the leather harness straps on the legs of the sawhorse so that my wrists and ankles could be secured quickly and easily.

The ritual for my punishment sessions never varied very much. When the hour of reckoning finally arrived, I would have to go get the strap from the back porch and bring it to the shed where I would lay it over one end of the sawhorse. If the weather was really cold my next job would be to light the portable heater. Then I would have to go and stand with my face pressed into the one empty corner of the shed and think about what I had done wrong and about how much my ass was going to smart for it. I could always count on its being at least an hour before I would hear my father’s heavy footsteps coming up the path. After entering and seating himself on a high wooden stool, he would order me to come over and stand in front of him. Then he would make me look him straight in the eye while he gave me a long lecture about what I had done to piss him off and just why it was that I needed this whipping. After this came the really humiliating part. He would make me take off all my clothes before bending me over the sawhorse. Then I had to spreadeagle my arms and legs so they could be tied with the leather straps to the legs of the horse.

As soon as I was secured over the horse, my father would pick up the strap and go to work on my ass. The blows would land hard and in rapid succession which cause a hell of a lot of pain to build up in a hurry and was aggravated by the fact that he kept all his licks aimed only at my butt-cheeks. After our first couple sessions in the shed I actually began to believe my father was doing me a favor by tying me down. If I had to be whipped, being restrained was the only possible way I could have taken a thrashing this bad.

By the time I was in tenth grade this whole situation had become really embarrassing since none of my friends were still being whipped by their fathers. The one time I worked up enough courage to mention this to my father, I was told grimly that every one of them would still be getting the strap if he had anything to say about it.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

During the late spring of my sophomore year in high school, my mother’s brother offered my parents a way to get out from under the burden of our farm which was, by then, going steadily down the tubes. My uncle, who was rapidly becoming a very successful rancher in southwest Texas, offered my father a good job and a house to live in, He also put me to work as a hand full-time during the summer and part-time during the school year. Even though my father never whipped me again after we moved to Texas, my next experience with ass beating was to begin shortly. It happened when I decided to go out for Young Ropers, a rodeo club for young men ages sixteen up to twenty-one.

Our initiation took place over a weekend in mid-August when the entire group members, would-be members and sponsors all saddled up their horses and rode off for a campout on property owned by the father of one of the club members. I learned later that this location was always chosen because of its God-forsaken remoteness. This was to guarantee that the club would be able to initiate its new members without any danger of being observed. Complete privacy was an important consideration given the kind of hazing the Ropers liked to do. Even though it only lasted forty-eight hours, it was the longest forty-eight hours I had ever experienced in my whole fucking life. In spite of all the participants being sworn to secrecy every year, the Ropers had a kind of ominous reputation which kept all but the toughest most macho boys from joining.

In addition to the eleven adult sponsors of the group, all of whom were former club members, we also had with us two honorary sponsors who had arranged to take the weekend off. One of these was the local Lutheran minister, a large, muscular, good-looking former college football jock in his late twenties who served as the club’s chaplain. The other man was a doctor and the father of one of the club members. Feeling the need to bring a doctor along says volumes about Young Roper initiations.

In preparation for the weekend, we had been forbidden to bring any clothing except what we would be wearing. We were told to wear hats, boots, leather work gloves and bandannas around our necks. Our jeans were to be Wranglers, which happened to be the “official” pants of the Ropers. We were not to bring any toiletries, not even razors or tooth brushes. We were to bring only a sleeping bag and a paper grocery sack with our name printed on it which was to contain a roll of toilet paper and six spring-loaded clothespins. We had also been ordered to show up at the meeting place Friday afternoon wearing quarter inch crew cuts. The worst part was that we had also been warned not to appear under any circumstances unless the rest of our bodies were completely hairless: even our armpits, cocks and balls. Any hair found on us would be pulled out with tweezers.

What made this so bad for me was that I had hair in places I couldn’t reach. Finally, after giving the matter a lot of thought, I swallowed my pride and asked Garth, one of my best friends, if he would help me out. Garth, who was also being initiated into the Ropers said he had the same identical problem. This being the case, we decided to trade shaves. Even though both of us got hard as rocks while having our crotches shaved, we just laughed it off as something caused by the necessary handling and nothing more. You can bet your ass that all this shaving was done over at Garth’s house and not mine. My father would have had a shit hemorrhage if he’d caught us in the act.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

On Friday of that fateful weekend, after a two-hour ride on horseback, we arrived at the campsite in the late afternoon and pitched the tents. Those of us being initiated were given a lecture by the club president which was carefully calculated to scare the shit out of us. He said that for the next two days we would be lowly jackasses without speech and with no rights. We were the sole property of the club members who could do with us as they damn well pleased. We would obey all commands instantly. Any disobedience, or sounds, other than whimpering when hurt, would be punished in a manner easily understood by any jackass: in other words, with a whip. The bottom line was that, for the remainder of the weekend, the eight of us would be totally at the mercy of two dozen young cowboys who, as we would soon discover, had a real talent for doing painful things with whips, paddles, hot shots and a few yards of rope.

After our situation had been explained to us, each jackass was assigned to his three “mule skinners” who were the club members who would have direct charge over him. I was remanded to the custody of Craig, Justin and Troy who would, later on, become three of my best friends. This would be an interesting transformation given the fact that, during that weekend, I had more than a little proof that they were all total assholes as well as my worst enemies.

The first thing the mule skinners did was to get the eight of us stripped naked. Except for our socks and boots, we wouldn’t see our clothes again until late Sunday afternoon when we were getting ready to ride back to town. As soon as I had been relieved of my boots and socks, Justin started popping the buttons on my shirt while Craig ripped off my jeans. While those two guys were busy stuffing my clothes into my grocery sack, Troy ambled over and, grasping the leg bands of my cotton jockeys whispered, “Okay, big jack, it’s time to see what these little white fuckers are hiding.” As he slid my shorts down my legs, I felt a tingling in my crotch and knew that I was getting hard. Since I had always thought of myself as super-straight, I was struggling with a lot of confusion as to just why the hell I was getting so fucking turned on having my underpants taken off by a goddam boy. What made it even worse was that Troy, instead of ignoring my problem, gave my stiffening cock a couple real hard squeezes and whistled “Goddam!” under his breath. Then he hollered, “Hey y’all! Come over here and take a gander at what this fuckin’ donkey’s got hangin’ on him. We oughter hire ‘im out for stud service! Let’s get us a mare and we’ll make us some goddam mules!”

As soon as my three mule skinners had me stripped, they got some rope and went to work positioning my arms so they could tie my hands and elbows behind my back, which was the way they would be kept except when I was to be tied in some other position. As Craig buckled a large studded dog collar around my neck, he told me that all the jackasses would be wearing these collars day and night until after we had been formally initiated the following weekend. It was sort of embarrassing in that everybody in the whole damn town would want to know why we were wearing those big black and chrome collars.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

By now it was supper time. We were made to eat all our meals kneeling on the ground with our hands still tied behind us. Anybody who has ever tried to eat this way knows how hard it is to keep from falling face-first into your dish. Our food consisted entirely of cold baked beans which had been laced with castor oil, the amount of which was designed to give us the runs for the entire weekend. An even worse torture was that, while we were eating this shit, we were forced to smell the food the members were cooking for themselves: grilled steaks, chicken and ribs, as well as potatoes and sweet corn which had been roasted in the coals of the fire.

As soon as supper was finished, all eight of us jackasses were strung up to overhead branches with our feet tied to stakes after they had been spread as far apart as our mule skinners could kick them. Another stake was pounded into the ground six or eight feet in front of us to which our cocks and balls were roped so tightly that there was always an uncomfortable tugging sensation. After we had been gagged with bits, they blindfolded us with our own bandannas. The mule skinners then used our bodies to hone their whipping skills. In theory, the object of the exercise was to flick lightly whatever part of the anatomy was targeted. In reality, however, most of these guys weren’t all that good with a whip, which left the eight of us pretty well striped and covered with welts. All in all, my ass was the part of me hardest hit. Because of all the whipping and paddling they put us through that weekend, I was still oozing small amounts of blood into my underwear three days later. In order to fight infection, the doc insisted that we have rubbing alcohol daubed into our wounds several times each day which also, of course, provided some pretty good torture all by itself.

We were made to spend our nights naked, imprisoned inside our zipped-up sleeping bags with our ankles and knees tied and our wrists bound behind our backs. In addition to all the other painful crap being done to us, we also had to put up with the cramping caused by the castor oil which was constantly tearing up our guts. We were only allowed to dump just before bedtime, so any boy who couldn’t hold his shit until reveille had no other choice but to go in his sleeping bag and sleep with both it and the stench for the rest of the weekend.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

 

As all of us rookies were struggling to sleep bound and in our sleeping bags and hoping we didn’t shit in our bags, we heard the boots and spurs of the mule skinners coming into our camping area.  My three mule skinners kicked my bag.  I was unzipped and quickly blindfolded and lead away into the woods.  I could hear yelling and realized that all of us jackasses were being taken into the woods.  Quickly I could tell that each of us was being taken away from the others as their sounds and groans quickly faded away.

Craig, Justin and Troy led me into a clearing where my wrists and ankles were tied in a spread-eagle fashion to a couple of posts in the ground.  There was a small fire already going in the clearing.  My three mule skinners had a cooler and each popped some cans of beer and started drinking.  The whip came out and they started taking turns whipping my ass and back again.  I yelled and was quickly gagged.  I heard other far away yells and cracks of whips.  We were all definitely going through the same experience.

After they finished their first beers and each hit me a couple of times with the whip, they each grabbed a second beer.  Craig came up to me and started to grab my cock with his leathered gloved hand.

“Well Jack, let’s see what our donkey has tonight.  Fuck… you’ve got a damn big cock.  How ‘bout we see how many times we can jack you off tonight….  I’ll start”, said Craig.

The other boys started laughing as Craig started jerking my cock.  As much as I wanted to be the straight stud, my dick had a mind of its own.  Damn, his hand felt so good as he worked my cock.  Before long I was shooting my jizz in Craig’s glove.

I was hoping Craig would stop once I came, but he kept jacking my now sensitive dick and Craig just smeared my cum on cock as he continued to stroke me hard.  He was laughing as he knew the pain, he was causing me.  I was whimpering into my gag.

Finally, Justin told Craig, “Craig, let’s get this boy working our dicks.  I’m horny and need to unload.”

I was trying to process what Justin just said as thankfully Craig let go of my dick.

Craig said, “I was just letting our donkey feel some pain.  Fuck, we do need to put Jack out for stud service.”

Justin and Troy untied me from the posts and then forced me to kneel where my hands and arms were tied behind me and my ankles tied together.  The blindfold on my eyes was left in place but the gag from my mouth was removed.

Justin said, “Okay jackass, here’s the game.  You have to figure out who’s cock is in your mouth.  If you screw up, well, you’ll get the shit kicked out of your ass.  If you get it right, you take our load.”

The guys laughed while I tried to process what they said.  Suddenly Justin shoved his cock into my mouth.  I was stunned and started to gag.  Justin forced himself in harder.  Someone stood behind me so I couldn’t lean back.

“Ah fuck yeah, jackass.  Your mouth is so fucking hot on my dick.  This is going to be a real fun game”, said Justin.

Suddenly Justin pulled his dick out of my mouth and another dick was inserted.  I heard Troy’s voice say, “Fuck yeah.  Justin you are so right.  This fucker’s mouth will be fun to get a nice blow job tonight.”

Troy pulled out and a third dick was inserted.  It was Craig’s.  “You like my manhood dickhead?  We are going to enjoy having you service your mule skinners tonight.  Sucking us off will help us sleep good tonight.  Fuck yeah, shit you take cock good boy.  Maybe you have experience before?”

All three laughed.  Craig pulled out.

Now I realized that I hadn’t really paid attention to anything about these dicks I could remember.  Shit, I was in trouble with this game.

I was told that as soon as a cock was inserted in my mouth, I had 15-seconds to guess who’s it was.  I would not be prompted for a response.

A cock was inserted in my mouth.  I had no clue who it was.  I tried to figure it out.  I felt spurs on my ass and I blurted out “Craig”.

 “Wrong shithead”, I heard Justin say.  Suddenly I felt all three cowboys laid a few well-placed boot kicks that knocked me to the ground.  I was up righted again.

Another cock was inserted in my mouth.  Again, I desperately tried to determine who’s it was.  When I felt the spurs, I said “Troy”.

“Wrong motherfucker.  You’re not very good at this game”, said Craig.  Again, I was given several hard boot kicks.

Another cock was inserted in my mouth.  I realized that I thought this was Justin’s.  When I felt the spurs, I said “Justin”.

“Good job jackass”, said Justin.  “Now, you can suck my dry boy for getting it right.  I’m gonna drain my fucking nuts down your throat.”

Justin went to work giving me a face fuck.  He kept pressing in harder and deeper with his thrusts.  After a few minutes, he started unleashing a load of cum in my mouth and throat.  I kept trying to gag but Justin wouldn’t let me and kept pressing his cock deep in my mouth until he was drained.

“Damn good blow job donkey boy.  Now boys, let’s see if he can guess again.”

A cock was inserted in my mouth.  I wrongly guessed “Troy” and received boot kicks that knocked me down.  I was up righted again.

The next cock I guessed was Troy’s.  Like Justin, he proceeded to give me a face fuck and drain his cock in my mouth.

Lastly, Craig had me suck him dry.

The boys seemed to enjoy their party.  They finished their beers and led me back to camp where I was again bound and zipped into my sleeping bag.  I had to shit, but they just laughed and told me to hold it until morning.  The rules hadn’t changed.

I tried to hold it as long as I could before I felt my bowels unleashed the castor oil inspired dump of shit in my bag.  By the smell, I could tell I wasn’t the only jackass to unload as well.

We later learned that these night time hazing sessions were recently added by a horny sadistic group of senior guys who recently graduated out of the Young Ropers.  The latest seniors decided to keep the new night time hazing activities and the adult leaders didn’t seem to know about them, or at least they looked the other way.

Just before sunup, Derek was brought back to camp and zipped in his sleeping bag.  We tried to get him to talk, but he didn’t say anything.

 

~~~~~  ∞ж∞  ~~~~~

Conclusion (Next Week) - Young Ropers - Part 2