Tryouts
"AHHHHHH! AH! AGGGHHHHHH!" Mike screamed as the current lanced through his helpless body. "AGGGHHHHH! AGGGHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!"
"Thought you were a man, Mikey?" Greg taunted.
"You said you had what it takes," Joe added, frowning in disappointment.
Mike had waited until his Sophomore year to tryout for the football team. The university technically allowed Freshmen to join, but he had wanted to build up his body first. He'd succeeded. In his first year and a half on campus, Mike had transformed his scrawny, thin high school body. He sported 16 inch biceps, a 30 inch chest, six pack abs that had all the girls in his classes drooling, and thick, trunk-like quads that propelled him to new personal records on the track.
When he'd finally approached the team, things had looked promising. The assistant coaches in charge of recruiting had administered a series of strength and speed tests which Mike had sailed through effortlessly. Then he was assigned to two team trainers, who would make the final judgment regarding his application.
The first two weeks seemed to go well. Joe and Greg had put him through tiring trials. Sprinting, endurance runs, and a whole gamut of rigorous exercises on the field. Late night, private workout sessions in the campus gym—always scheduled after closing time—had Mike pumping iron for hours on end, forcing his powerful muscles to endure far past his usual limits. Hundreds of push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, squats and lunges had strained him past the point of exhausted night after night. But, he'd persevered.
Then on the second Friday of his trial period, he'd gotten a text to come to the Athletic Dorm at 11pm sharp. He was instructed to bring only himself and loose fitting clothes. No phone, no watch, no wallet, not even shoes, just flip flops.
Once there, he'd been ushered inside, and down a stairwell into the basement. On the other end of the basement, there was yet another set of stairs leading to a stuffy, dimly lit level with cinder block walls and barely any ventilation. A few overhead light fixtures illuminated the room in pools of white light.
"Strip," Greg had ordered. Mike obeyed, though he was suspicious as to what was going on.
"The next test is the Parrilla. The ultimate test of strength and manhood." Joe had said. "If you pass this test, then you're one step closer to joining the team. If you don't...well."
"I can do it," Mike had proclaimed proudly—in hindsight arrogantly. He had stripped voluntarily then, not ashamed in the least to show off his impressive body to his trainers. He could take anything they could dish out, he'd thought.
They'd led him across the room to a bedspring that was mounted at an upright angle. A space heater burned quietly behind it making the air even hotter and harder to breathe. Leather manacles hung from the four corners of the metal frame, creating the first spark of worry in Mike. What kind of strength test could this be?
He'd quickly found out. Greg and Joe had grabbed him and forced him onto the bed frame, locking the shackles over Mike's wrists and ankles. Mike pulled on the restraints, straining his biceps and thighs in a futile attempt to get free, but the straps didn't budge.
What came next nothing could have prepared Mike for.
Greg uncovered a black box on a stand, which was connected to the bedspring by thin red wires. As soon as Greg turned the dial on the front of the box, there was no more confusion as to what the test entailed.
"AHHHHHH! AHHH-AHH-AGHHHHHHH!" Mike shrieked as another jolt of electricity blasted through his shaking, sweat-soaked flesh.
"Go to five," Joe said. Greg grinned and turned the dial once more.
Mike barely had time to catch his breath before his body arched off the frame, gripped in another wave of unbearable pain. "AGGHHHHH! AGGHHHHH! AGGGGHHHHHH!"
Greg held the dial at level five for two long, uninterrupted minutes. Mike's screams echoed off the thick walls. No one was going to hear him. He might as well be in Hell.
Joe held up his hand and Greg finally dialed back the power. Mike collapsed onto the frame, body bouncing slightly on the flexible springs.
"Pl-please..." he panted. "Please...no more...."
"Aw," Greg cried mockingly. "Getting tired? Thought you were a man, Mikey?"
"You said you had what it takes," Joe added, frowning in disappointment.
"I was wrong!" Mike cried desperately, shaking his head to get his dripping wet blond hair out of his eyes. "I was wrong. Please. I can't take—!"
Greg cranked the dial to level six.
"AGGHHHHHHHHH! AGGGHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Mike's tormented muscles flexed huge as the current ripped through him. The pain was beyond anything he'd ever imagined, let alone experienced. He couldn't fight it, couldn't maintain a strong front for the two guys judging him. All he could do was scream and writhe as the current arced across his damp skin and through his exhausted, straining muscles. Every beat of his pulse carried agony. Every thought was blasted from his mind. Every desperate plea for mercy he could compose was lost in a tidal wave of searing, white hot anguish.
The current stopped suddenly as Greg dialed it back to zero.
Mike struggled to raise his head as his worn out body sagged against the metal frame. At some point, Joe had stripped naked, and Greg had removed his shirt. Mike wasn't sure what was coming next, but he couldn't help but see that both his team trainers were sporting massive hard-ons.
Joe looked angry. "Take him straight to nine."
Mike shook his head weakly, knowing his silent plea wouldn't impress either of the sadistic athletes.
Greg spun the dial enthusiastically to nine.
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